Father Mine - Project Progeny
by myinnerchildisbored
Summary: John moves in with Sherlock and finds himself confronted not just with the mad genius himself but also his prodigious progeny, ten-year-old Thea. While Sherlock has no trouble dealing with the deprivations of the underworld, the demands of parenting may well be enough to break the man - especially when Thea begins an investigation of her own. The subject? Her mother. ParentLock
1. Dinner

John returned to Baker Street rather late, laden with his few possessions. Struggling with his walking stick, he awkwardly navigated the narrow staircase, his

view limited by a rather large cardboard box of miscellanea. He was aware of the small television blaring some music video at borderline tolerable volume as he

carefully set his box down on the first available surface – which, thanks to the chaotic state of the living room, happened to be the stovetop.

"Who are you?" a voice asked sharply over the din on the television.

John turned. Folded into the armchair in front of the telly, almost entirely obscured by a quilted blanket, was a child.

"I-uhm…" It had been a long and strange day and John found himself unable to process the situation at any speed at all. The girl, he was almost certain it was

a girl, judging by the length of wildly curled dark hair, but her features were weirdly androgynous. Clothes might have given him certainty, but the quilt didn't

allow for even a glimpse. In any case, girl or boy, the child was perhaps eleven at the most and John found himself wondering what such a child might do up at

nearly midnight on a Thursday.

"D'you live here?" he asked for lack of anything better to say.

"Nah," she said, her gaze glued to the television, "I just wandered in off the street a little while ago and thought I catch up on my generation's cultural canon.

In my pyjamas. Of course I bloody live here. And judging from that box slowly catching fire in the kitchen, so do you."

"What?"

"Do. You. Live. Here?" she said slowly, as if she was talking to someone outrageously thick.

"I-"

"Fire," the girl sang out leisurely, still completely focused on the TV.

John spun around and knocked the smoking box of the stove top, drenching it with the liquid closest at hand; tea, straight from the pot.

"Why the bloody hell is the stove on?" he shouted.

"I was making dinner."

"What dinner?" John could see no evidence of a meal cooked or consumed.

"There was nothing to cook," came the even-toned answer.

"Then why in God's name is the stove still on?"

There was a pause at that.

"Forgot," the kid said finally.

"I see," John huffed.

"D'you have any money?"

"What?"

"I said-"

The door was flung open and Sherlock strode into the room, swiped a dense looking bound volume from a stack of books on the mantel and started flicking

through the pages.

"Sherlock?" John called over the music, which seemed to be getting louder at a slow but steady pace. The kid was pressing the volume on the remote

absentmindedly but in perfect time with the beat of the song.

"Sherlock?"

No response.

"Sherlock!"

"What, John?" he snapped irritably.

"You didn't mention you had a-"

"Will you turn that ungodly racket down, child?" Sherlock boomed so abruptly it made John jump. The child in question however, didn't flinch. Rather, the volume

increased further.

Sherlock crossed the room with two strides, snatched the remote control, turned off the television and tossed the remote out of the window.

"Is that your daughter?" John asked into the ensuing silence.

"Regrettably so," Sherlock sighed.

"You didn't mention her."

"Didn't I?"

"No."

"Hm."

"Anyway," John waved his hand in greeting, somewhat pointlessly, "I'm John."

"Thea," she said, not returning his wave.

"Alethea," Sherlock corrected.

"Thea," she repeated.

"Why go through the trouble of selecting a suitable, majestic name for a child if they're just going to butcher it?" Sherlock groaned. "Have you eaten?"

"No," said Thea, visibly perking up.

"Change that," Sherlock waved a bank note at her and she jumped from under the quilts with remarkable speed, snatched it and made for the door. "Children

need to eat so frequently.."

"You…what…no…stop!"

"What?" Both Holmes looked at John in confusion.

"It's past midnight," John said.

"That's alright, the take away on the corner is open til three," Sherlock assured him.

"Yea," Thea confirmed.

"You can't send a kid wandering the streets alone at night," John elaborated somewhat exasperated.

"It's not even two hundred yards away," scoffed his new flatmate.

"That's hardly the point-"

The door fell closed behind Thea. John stared at Sherlock in disbelief, waiting for him to follow his daughter into the drizzling dark. Sherlock, however, appeared

to have gone into some kind of weird trance staring at the book he still had in his hand. Muttering curses, John took up his walking stick and made for the

stairs.

()

He caught up with Thea at the door of the take away.

"This is no time for a little girl to be-"

"-dying of starvation," she finished for him. "I concur, that would be positively medieval. Or third worldish. Or barbaric. D'you want something?"

He was rather peckish come to think of it.

"Two Vindaloo, please" Thea shouted at the man behind the counter when they entered one moment later.

"Nothing for Sherl- for your dad?" John asked.

"He's not in the habit of eating," she said casually. "Digestion slows him down, supposedly. I think he just forgets, personally. Eating's just not that

interesting."

She collected the two containers from the counter, having to stand on tip toe, paid and stormed back towards 221B, John struggling to keep pace.

()

"That smells rancid," Sherlock commented when Thea ripped open her container of Vindaloo and started shovelling it into her mouth with a teaspoon she'd

found in amongst the debris on the kitchen table. "Sit properly!"

He was staring intently into a microscope set up on the kitchen counter.

"I am," she shot back, muffled by a mouthful of food, although her perch on the armrest of the chair seemed precarious.

John cleared himself a patch of kitchen table, moved a stack of books from a chair to the floor and went in search of a spoon, striking gold in one of the kitchen

drawers. A lone spoon lay amongst a selection of test tubes and tongs of all sizes.

"So, Thea," he said in an attempt at casual conversation, "do have school tomorrow?"

"No," she said just as Sherlock replied "Yes".

"I don't have school on Saturdays," she groaned.

"Tomorrow's Friday," Sherlock reminded her.

"It's not, today's Friday."

"Touché," Sherlock grinned behind his microscope. "You've got school in- "he glanced at his watch "-seven hours."

Thea emitted a non-committal grunt.

"Homework done?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure," she said smoothly.

"Liar."

"I'll do it in on the bus."

"As if your handwriting wasn't atrocious enough as it is," Sherlock muttered.

Thea shrugged, concentrating on scraping her plastic container clean. When she was satisfied that no more nourishment was to be had from it, she tossed the

almost pristine dish towards the sink, missing by several metres.

"Have you practised?"

"I don't need to" John suppressed a smirk at Thea's nonchalance "I'm a savant."

"You don't know what that means," Sherlock said drily.

"It means," she shot back, "I don't need to practise violin."

"You play the violin?" John inquired politely.

"There you are," said Sherlock, "play for John, showcase your savant abilities."

"It's one in the morning," Thea protested. "I'd wake Mrs Hudson."

"As you seem to have devised a convenient excuse for any purposeful activity I believe it is bedtime."

"But-"

"You are quickly exhausting my patience, Alethea."

"Your dad's got a point," John added, quite enjoying the show now. "It is rather late."

"This is bollocks!" the girl exclaimed.

"Language."

"Stop! Why are you pretending to be an adult?! And you," she rounded on John, "you've only just moved in and already you're the boss of me?"

"Bed," Sherlock said firmly.

"I'm digesting-"

"For God's sake, do I have to take you there myself?"

"Would you?" Thea asked with a sudden smile.

"I'm working."

John watched Thea's smile vanish as quickly as it had appeared. To his surprise, so did Sherlock. Sighing, he abandoned his microscope and rose.

"Come on then," he said, offering his daughter his hand.

"Can you bring 'The Art of War'?" she asked.

"You can read."

"Your monotone calms me."

"Two pages."

"Seven."

"Non-negotiable."

"Five?"

Sherlock sighed anew.

"Fine," he conceded.

"Smashing," Thea beamed, taking his hand and allowing him to lead her to the door. "Good night, John," she called over her shoulder.

"Enough pleasantries, let's go," Sherlock growled.

John listened to their footsteps disappearing upstairs and leaned back in his chair. He listened to the soft patter of the rain against the window, joined shortly

after by the indistinct murmur of Sherlock reading aloud in the room above him. In amongst the mayhem of books, instruments and test tubes, John caught

himself feeling strangely at home.


	2. Breakfast

John ambled into the kitchen in his dressing gown around seven, finding Sherlock still firmly installed behind the microscope and Thea reclined on the sofa, chewing handfuls of dry cornflakes from the box with

soft crunching noises, reading simultaneously.

"Why-" he started.

"No milk," she answered without looking up.

"Right." John turned the kettle on regardless, black tea would do just as well. For a while everyone went about their business in comfortable silence.

"What's 'perspicacity'?" Thea asked suddenly.

"The ability to see through and understand a situation," Sherlock replied. "And it's pronounced per-spi- _ca_ -city, not perspica- _city_."

"Perspi _ca_ city," Thea repeated. "Ooooh…like perspex."

"Precisely. Now use it in a sentence," Sherlock ordered.

Thea thought for a moment.

"Your perspicacity is hindered by your intoxication?"

"Excellent."

John poured the tea.

"It's seven thirty," he said.

Neither Holmes reacted.

"Don't you have to get going?" he asked Thea.

"Huh?"

He knew she'd heard him perfectly well and was torn between a strange feeling of responsibility fighting with the thought that this was really none of his

business.

"I've loads of time," she muttered from behind her book.

"Ample," her father corrected.

"Plenty," she offered.

"Sufficient."

"A plethora of it."

"Very nice," Sherlock allowed. "Get going, set yourself in motion, be on your way."

"I just wanna-"

"-want to-"

"-finish this chapter."

"Read as your walking."

"I'll get hit by a car," Thea said evenly.

Sherlock gave her a bored look.

"Then read finish it in class," he said.

Sighing, Thea rolled herself from the couch and stuffed her book into a battered briefcase overflowing with loose sheets of nigh unintelligible writing and some pristine looking school books.

"Can I have some money?" she asked.

"You've pocketed the change from dinner," said Sherlock. "That should suffice."

"It won't if I have to pay for the bus," she countered.

"Where's your oyster card?"

"Lost it?" she offered.

"Not my problem," her father shrugged. "Time to learn to budget."

"Child abuser," Thea spat.

"Hysteric," Sherlock shot back.

John sipped his tea, watching them over the rim of his cup. Thea was pulling on her shoes, dug into the pocket of her school blazer, the left side of which had

dried stains of something yellow and vaguely

fluorescent all over it, and produced a crumpled slip of paper. She pulled a pen from the rubber band holding her ponytail and casually sidled up to Sherlock,

who had again focused completely on the samples

in front of him.

"Sign here," she ordered.

Sherlock raised his right hand distractedly, allowed her to place the pen in it and scrawled his signature without moving his eyes toward it for even an instant.

Thea returned the paper to her pocket, collected her briefcase and gave John a cheerful wave.

"Toodle-pip," she sang and waltzed out of the door.

For a while the two men sat quietly, John weighing up whether or not he should be bothered by his flatmate's parenting style.

"What did you just sign?" he finally asked with a sigh.

"What?"

"You just signed a document with a school crest on it without even looking at it."

"No, I didn't."

"What?"

"Did I?"

"Don't you think you should-"John started.

"How could it possibly be of more importance than what I'm engaged with?" Sherlock asked huffily. "If it was a matter of any sort of magnitude, they'd do

better than a note home, surely."

He stood and reached for his coat and scarf.

"Coming?" he asked, already halfway out the door.

"I'm in my-" John began, looking at his dressing gown and pyjamas.

"I'll be at the hospital," Sherlock announced from the stairs and a moment later the front door fell shut.


	3. Swimming

Thea sat on a broad stone windowsill in the deserted school corridor and looked down at the frantic activity on the oval below. Watching the other students

weaving around each other from this perspective reminded her strangely of an ant farm. She'd had an ant farm once, when she'd been very young, it hard

bored her senseless.

Currently, however, Thea was far from bored. She was problem solving. It was, after a fashion, a problem of her own creation, which suggested it should have

been easily solved. In theory. But after a good fifteen minutes on her window sill, chewing gum vigorously, flipping a coin over her knuckles as gracefully as

possible and dropping it frequently, tapping her feet and blinking so little her eyes were feeling dry – thinking in other words – she began to suspect that she'd

painted herself into a corner.

All things considered, Thea had done well. She had been orchestrating an elaborate game of cat and mouse between the head of her school and the supposed

head of her household for close to three months now. The entire term had been devoted almost exclusively to keeping the two heads from turning face to face.

In the case of her father this had been almost laughably easy. While he had frequent compulsions to teach her things, his interest in her actual school-

schooling was at an even level zero. The signing of her head of form's latest correspondence – _we really must insist on a meeting at your earliest convenience and_

 _while we are aware of your demanding work schedule we cannot stress enough that…_ \- had in no way been an isolated incident. Things that were not of interest to

her father could be virtually invisible to him.

Unfortunately, her head of form had deduced as much by the time she handed him the signed slip this morning.

"Your father has no intention of actually coming to see us, does he, Miss Holmes?" he asked, not unkindly.

"He's busy," Thea said brusquely. "It's hard for him to keep appointments, the schedule is sort of…er...busy."

She'd almost said 'erratic'.

"I see," Mr Finchley smiled at her. He didn't dislike her, Thea knew this. None of his actions were designed to make her life harder, in fact, if anything, he

wanted to genuinely help. "I tell you what, Thea, just let your dad know I'll be giving him a call, we can have a phone conference. He can call me if he has a

moment, but if not I will _definitely_ be in touch."

"He doesn't really answer the phone," Thea had said, panic rising. "He prefers to text."

"Believe it or not, I'm capable of that, too," said Mr Finchley.

So there she was. While there was a good chance that her father would ignore the calls, he did read absolutely all of his text messages. Immediately.

()

"Your head of form wants to talk to me about your performance."

"Yea?" Thea said vaguely, carefully peeling back the fourth layer of skin from a severed human finger. "Wow, look how deep that ink stain goes!"

"Fascinating, isn't it," Sherlock appeared at her side, looking over her shoulder. "Bet you're never going to chew on your pen again."

"Am I slicing this fine enough?"

"It's more than adequate for someone at your level of vivisection. So?"

"So what?"

"I'm assuming they want to move you up another grade, but I'm surprised they want to talk to me about it after the second term already," Sherlock turned on

the kettle. "If they want to move you mid-year, your performance must be nothing short of stellar. Unless…"

As his voice trailed off, Thea froze on her stool, the finger suspended before her, hanging from her tweezers like a morbid sort of orchid. To her absolute horror,

her father reached into his coat pocket and produced his mobile phone, dialling.

"Yes, hello," he said in a tone reserved for the spastically simple. "This is Sherlock Holmes, just returning your call regarding my daughter, Alethea Holmes."

His eyes rolled back into his head involuntarily as the person on the other end started to speak.

"Could you," he interrupted after about ten seconds, "could you just relay the relevant information, if at all possible?"

"I see," he said, a further ten seconds later.

Then he hung up.

It seemed almost comically cruel to Thea that her life should be ended by a thirty second phone call. While her life was pleasantly free of curfews, censorship

and expectations of tidiness that plagued her contemporaries, this particular digression was bound to drive her father into rage. Potentially murderous. And

weapons were in no short supply in their household.

"Explain," he said, still facing the kettle.

"Explain wha-"

He turned, his face still and composed, only the flicker in his eyes betraying his volcanic anger.

" _Explain_."

She dropped the finger into the petri dish. She didn't know where to look.

"I…" she said barely audible. "It's…"

"Speak up!"

Thea jumped and lost power of speech entirely.

"You have exactly thirty seconds to explain yourself before I call your uncle and have you installed at boarding school before dinnertime tomorrow," Sherlock

roared. " _Do not chew your nails!_ "

She tore a cuticle when she ripped her finger from her mouth.

"They were going to move me up again," she whispered.

"Where you would have still been bored with the work in all probability," he spat. "Or perhaps not. Because you may actually be a complete and utter imbecile,

if that man on the phone is to be believed."

"I-"

"Difficulty comprehending concepts of chemistry and biology!"

"But-"

"Below average _vocabulary_!"

"I-"

"Pretending to be some sort of cretin so the goldfish wouldn't make fun of you?!"

"Oh."

"Oh? It's so blatantly obvious, it's painful," Sherlock shouted.

"What's going on here then?"

John walked into the room, setting a plastic bag of groceries onto the couch.

"Why are you shouting? Is she crying? Are you crying, Thea?"

"I'm shouting," continued Sherlock at top volume, "because my own daughter has fallen prey to the misconception that _fitting in_ should be the crowning

achievement in every worthwhile person's life. And because people are now bothering me, demanding I come and discuss this ridiculous situation. And she is

crying in a futile attempt to tug on my heart strings to avoid the consequences of her idiotic actions."

Thea wasn't quite crying, but she was not far off. If her father knew why she'd applied herself to epically failing in every single subject – and he did, of course

he did – there was literally nothing she could utter in her defence.

John was in the kitchen with them now, looking from one to the other, concern furrowing his brow slightly. He'd become accustomed to a certain level of

bickering between Sherlock and Thea, but this seemed a genuine upset.

"Calm down, Sherlock."

"Don't you realise that you're only prolonging the time you have to spend with these people?" Sherlock was leaning over the table now, close enough for his

nose to almost touch Thea's forehead. She murmured something completely unintelligible.

"Talk properly!"

"They're so much older already," Thea cried in despair, "they're drowning in their own hormones and wade through their days in a sludge of horny pubescent

anger looking for someone to annihilate just for a laugh! They are fucking terrifying!"

"Coward!"

"Sherlock!"

"And no one's talking to me!"

"What could they possibly have to say that's of interest?"

"Now, hold on a minute," John shouted over them.

"Oh, don't take the side of the poor, misunderstood child prodigy," Sherlock scoffed. "She has to get used it if she wants any form of life worth living because

there's not a chance that she'll find happiness masquerading as average."

"So what then?" John asked calmly. "You move her up and have her eaten alive by fifteen-year-olds, so she can come home upset every day?"

"No," Sherlock replied equally calm. "I'll give her a fresh start boarding so she can't come home at all."

He raised his phone like a weapon.

"Please!" Thea shrieked, feeling a full-blown panic attack coming on.

"This is the result of your bright idea," her father said, dialling. "Feel clever?"

"Obviously not!" Thea screamed. "I feel very, very, extremely, outrageously, achingly stupid, okay? It seemed like a good idea at the time, it's all gone wrong

and…and…"

"How could it possibly have ended in a different scenario from this?" John noticed Sherlock's tone softening ever so slightly, his phone still menacingly at the

ready.

"I didn't think it through, alright?" Thea sniffed. "I thought if I at least weren't that much younger than everyone else…I don't know…you don't understand…"

"I understand, I just don't empathise."

"So what now?" Thea asked. She was still on the verge of hyperventilating.

"Oh, that's right," Sherlock snapped, "you're not coming up with your own answers anymore, I forgot."

Thea shrunk a little.

"Go to your room, calm yourself down and think. When I come up, I expect a feasible solution to right this tremendous misstep, do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispered hoarsely, practically fleeing from the room.

For a moment John and Sherlock stood in silence.

"Well, that was harsh," John finally said.

"Life can be harsh," Sherlock retorted. 

()

Sherlock entered Thea's room without knocking, aware that his footsteps had announced him on his way upstairs. The girl was sitting on top of her desk by the

window, one hand twirling a pencil furiously, the other grasping her knee with tell-tale nails chewed to the quick.

He closed the door, pulled her chair from under the desk and sat.

"I'm listening."

"I'll re-sit the exams, if they let me," Thea told the window. "I'll redo my stupid term papers and do their stupid assignments next term. If they want to still

move me up, they can."

Sherlock waited. It was his experience that silence moved Thea to speech when she was emotional.

"It doesn't matter anyways," she said tonelessly. "They think I'm strange already. I can put up with that for seven hours. It's not even a third of a day."

"This is assuming I have changed my mind," Sherlock pointed out.

Thea kept her eyes on the street below.

"You weren't going to send me anywhere," she sighed. "You would never call Uncle Mycroft and ask for that kind of assistance, you were bluffing."

"And how did this escape you earlier?"

"Because I panicked. I had no explanation for my actions, you were shouting and I lost control under pressure, so I couldn't notice anything. I couldn't think

properly." She rested her head on her knees. "So bravo to you, well played, you win."

Sherlock waited.

"Don't you ever just want to be normal?" she sighed.

"Define normal."

"Walking down the street without information screaming at you from all angles, for example," Thea said. "Meeting up with people to eat something and talk

about, I don't know, films you've seen. Or go swimming."

"Swimming?" Sherlock asked disbelieving.

"It's just an example," Thea snapped, embarrassed. "People do go swimming, you know."

"You hate swimming."

"Wrong." He knew she was rolling her eyes even though she was still not looking at him. "I hate _school_ swimming."

"There's no discernible difference between school swimming and merely swimming, Alethea."

" _Purposeless_ swimming then," she almost shouted. "Swimming for no reason other than the enjoyable feeling of being weightless and being able to turn upside

down and the sensation of muffled sound under water. Sensory pleasure?"

"Are you trying to tell me that you purposefully failed your school work because you wanted to go swimming?"

"No, of course not," she groaned. "Don't be absurd. I thought if I was a little more stupid, a lot more stupid actually, I might seem more normal and then…"

"Go on."

"Do I have to say it out loud?"

"Yes. Then you might appreciate how utterly ridiculous you sound."

"I thought someone might want to be friends," Thea snapped, finally turning around, her face bright red with embarrassment. "Are you happy now? I'm just as

stupid as everyone else who can't be content in their own company."

This had in fact been something of a mantra when it came to Sherlock's stock of parenting phrases. _Only the stupid are not content in their own company_ was

ranked a close second behind _Don't test my patience_.

"Friends," he repeated. "Well, if you want them so desperately, I'm certain there's no shortage of viable candidates considering you're only selection criteria

appears to be their ability to swim."

"Don't make fun of me!"

"You're making that rather difficult."

"It doesn't matter, anyway, since no one wants to be friends with me." She sighed again. "Not that I would want to be. Because they're stupid."

"So that's settled then," Sherlock said happily. "I'll call that strange little man and tell him you've been…unwell. I doubt he'll be difficult to convince."

"Fine." Thea glumly turned back to the window. "Thanks for the talk."

"No problem," her father said, completely oblivious to her sarcasm and waltzed from the room.

()

"Is she alright?" John asked when Sherlock returned to the living room.

"Naturally."

"So what was all that about?"

"Ridiculous delusions about finding friends, but it's done. She seems to have seen the error of her ways, so let's move on, shall we?"

Upstairs Thea turned on her stereo and angry guitars shrieked through the floor boards. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Are you some kind of idiot?"

"What?"

"She's a child, of course she wants to have friends, that's what children do."

"It's not what I did as a child," Sherlock said frowning. "In fact, I would have thanked my mother on my knees if she'd stopped trying to force me into

socialising. I'm doing her a favour, she's bound to realise eventually."

"You're being completely ridiculous," John exclaimed. "Go up there and talk to her."

"About what?" Sherlock seemed genuinely bewildered. "She's agreed to stop her little game of charades and concedes that friendships are overrated. There is

nothing further to discuss."

"She's upset, Sherlock and she…" John stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, you may actually not be the right person to discuss this with. What

about her mother?"

"Dead."

"Jesus!"

"It's quite alright, she died of a haemorrhage. Emergency c-section. Water under the bridge."

"You serious?"

A confused look was all the answer John received.

"Well, then, I'm sorry – and I don't know who I'm most sorry for, I honestly don't – you need to go back upstairs and do something constructive."

"For example?"

"Ask her if she has any friends, for a start."

"She doesn't," Sherlock said calmly. "No one talks to her because they think she's strange, which given their inferior abilities is not altogether surprising.

Forward thinkers have rarely been well received."

"So you intend on doing nothing about this?"

Above them Thea started to violently play along to the song on her violin.

"I may go and confiscate that instrument before it's destroyed."

Before John had a chance to explain what a phenomenally bad idea this was, Sherlock was on his way upstairs.

()

"Hand it over," Sherlock ordered.

Thea, who had been brutally bouncing on her bed, strumming and head-banging at the same time, stared at him. She didn't feel particularly sad anymore, that

emotion had given way to seething anger at the world in general and at her father in particular. He'd tricked her into giving him his way by bulldozing her into

incoherence and she was furious about it. However, she knew there was nothing worse he could do to her today and that lend her anger a bizarre edge of

glee.

Balancing on one leg, violin firmly wedged under her chin, Thea used her bare foot to turn the volume on her stereo up. She clamped her bow between her

teeth and turned up the volume of the violin as well, just to the verge of distortion. The newly installed pick up, she'd done it herself, was something that gave

her enormous enjoyment.

She assaulted her father with a volley of noise that made him visibly wince and started jumping on the bed again. It creaked worryingly, but there were so

many books shove underneath it she doubted it would give out.

Sherlock turned heel and disappeared.

Thirty seconds later the power went out and in the booming silence her violin sounded as lonely and feeble as Thea felt.

"Am I not allowed any fun at all now?" she shouted when her father returned to the room. "Am I just supposed to be as miserable here as I am at school? Are

you really not satisfied with my state of constant bloody discomfort?"

"Put that away before you break it," said Sherlock, indicating the violin that Thea now brandished as one might do with a battle axe.

"What do you care about the fucking violin?" Thea erupted. "My sanity is breaking! My brain is breaking! Why don't you care about that instead?"

"You're being hysterical."

"If I am it's your fault!"

"How?"

"Because I thought you at least were on my side and you," she pointed the bow at him like a dagger, "you just trampled all over me! And not in a funny – oh,

haha, good old father mine, he's just being himself – kind of way, you were just being awful because you want me to be the same as you, because somehow

being similar is just not good enough."

He opened his mouth but seemed to be struggling for words, which Thea, though she could feel tears stinging her eyes again, found immensely satisfying.

"Everyone thinks I'm a weirdo and you don't think I'm particularly interesting, so where does it leave me? Tell me! I haven't got one single friend and you're off

with the clue faeries all the time – who do I turn to? Who?"

"Uhm, Mrs Hud-" he started helplessly.

"Don't be ridiculous, she's stopped registering my mental and physical growth when I was about four years old," Thea hissed venomously. "I tell you where it

leaves me – alone. All the time. All day long."

"I-"

"Speak properly!" she roared in a remarkable imitation of his earlier tones. "I need a break from having to be clever and composed all the bloody time or I'm

going to have a nervous breakdown before I'm even a teenager! This is bollocks – why am I even talking to you about this…"

The violin went flying onto her pillow, Thea jumped from her bed and ran at Sherlock, pushing him with all her strength out of the door before slamming it in his

face.

She turned the key, lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, waiting for his footsteps to announce his retreat. Her breath was ragged, her heart racing and while

she knew she would feel guilty about this very soon, she didn't yet. Not yet.

()

For a few hours Thea entertained herself with a series of fantasies about running away, which was utterly impossible of course, unless she came up with some

kind of cloaking device to shield her from CCTV. When that got boring, she decided it would be much more feasible to become hikikomori until she was old

enough to move out. Of course, to confine oneself to one's room permanently, one needed food.

Usually this would have presented a problem, as her father was not in the habit of purchasing groceries, but she remembered John's shopping bags and

decided to go on a scavenging mission.

She stealthily made her way down the stairs and peered around the corner of the living room. Deserted. Of course it was, she thought bitterly. Why would her

state of being in any way impact her father's willingness to leave the house? It never had. Not ever. Perhaps once or twice but really never.

Thea opened the fridge and was momentarily stunned at the amount of food inside. She removed some apples, a bag of sliced bread and some cheese, found

a knife and began to saw at the sealed plastic.

"There's a little tag you can pull to open it."

Thea almost dropped the cheese in fright.

John casually walked around the table, took the cheese from her and opened the package.

"I was just making dinner, actually," he said. "If you can hold on for fifteen minutes or so."

"I'll just make a sandwich," she said gruffly.

"Fair enough." John opened the fridge. "This will be better though. Plus it's going to be hot."

She sat down silently and watched him for a while.

"Are you putting all that in the one thing?" she asked suddenly.

'All that' encompassed bacon, mushrooms and onions.

"I am."

"Isn't that a bit excessive?"

John laughed.

"You two don't cook much, do you?"

"Not food, anyway," Thea admitted, remembered she was becoming a recluse and shut up. Still, she was hungry, so she didn't leave. Silence would suffice for

now. Her resolve lasted until she put the first forkful of pasta into her mouth fifteen minutes later.

"Oh my word, this is outrageous!" she shouted, spraying some droplets of cream over the papers covering most of the table. "You're wasted as a doctor, you

should be a chef."

"That's both flattering and a little sad," said John.

Thea replied but the food in her mouth rendered her words unintelligible.

"Your dad looked a bit shaken up when he came down earlier," John mentioned, refilling her quickly emptying plate.

"He doesn't get shaken up. He was probably onto the next thought and you misread his facial expression. Or he had the wrong one on – that happens a lot."

John shrugged.

"And on the off chance that he was, which he wasn't – good." Thea looked at John with a stony expression.

"I'm sure-"

Thea stood.

"Look, I'm sorry, I know you mean well, but you've only just met him," she said. "He's not like… _that_."

"That's a bit vague."

"It's horrendously complicated." Thea collected her plate from the table and left to finish it in her room without as much of a backwards glance.

()

Sherlock knocked on Thea's door. This was a first.

"Go away."

He knocked again.

"I don't want to talk to you. Not now. Not later. Not ever. Go-"

"Technically you're talking to me right now."

"Just-"

"Please open the door," he said as gently as he could manage.

"No."

"Open the door."

Silence.

"Alethea."

Nothing.

"Step back!" Sherlock shouted and kicked the door in.

"Are you crazy?" screamed his daughter, standing on her pillow, glaring at him. "This is-"

"Shut up," he snapped, sitting down on the edge of her bed. "Sit."

Thea sat, huffing, as far away from her father as the bed allowed. Sherlock was studying the skirting on the opposite wall intently. For a while they waited.

Thea would not give him the satisfaction of asking him what he wanted.

"You're going to a new school," he announced finally.

"Not falling for that again."

"Starting Tuesday."

"Bollocks."

"Call your fat uncle if you don't believe me." This was the ultimate proof of truth. "It's a little further away -"

"You utter-"

"-so you're going to have to leave earlier I suppose," Sherlock continued unperturbed. "Here." He handed her a new oyster card. "Don't lose it, I'm not getting

you another one."

"What?"

"I'm not getting you another one," he repeated.

"I- you- what? I mean," she retracted quickly when she noticed his eyes glazing over a little, "where is it? What school?"

"Yarville Independent. Over in Hampstead."

"Okay…" Thea looked at him curiously. "Care to elaborate?"

"It's the perfect solution," Sherlock said. "I don't need to deal with that strange little man from your old school and you don't need to deal with the fall-out of

your idiocy."

"So what form do I go into?" Thea asked nervously.

"This is an excellent question deserving of an excellent answer." Sherlock waved his hands like a string puppet magician. "None at all!"

"No answer?"

"No form."

"Hey?"

"No forms, I believe the Yarville administrative types have deemed them detrimental to student development."

"You're joking."

"Nope. You do the work you're capable of and advance at however rapid pace you like." He looked at her expectantly. "And, best of all, drum roll, big reveal –

no stupid uniforms."

Against her better judgement, Thea squealed and threw her arms around her father. To his credit he endured this for the better part of ten seconds.

"Alright, alright," he groaned, disentangling himself from her grip. "You're pleased, I take it?"

"I am," she grinned at him.

Sherlock studied her for a moment.

"All is well?" he asked carefully.

Thea briefly considered.

"All is well," she said, quietly amused at the utter relief her father was unable to hide.


	4. Race

"Stop doing that," Sherlock groaned at Thea who was walking across the back of the sofa, turning gracefully like a tight rope walker.

"No."

"I'm trying to concentrate."

"Bollocks, you could concentrate with a whole circus in the room," she shot back. "If you can't focus it's because you're antsy."

"That's not a word."

"Course it is," John said without looking up from the laptop. "And she's right, you're antsy."

"Fine!" Sherlock shouted in sudden exasperation, stopped dead, smiled and climbed onto the sofa, blocking his daughter's path. "Race you to the hardware

store."

Thea fairly shrieked with glee, vaulted off the couch and disappeared upstairs.

"What's this now?" John asked. "Do I want to know?"

"It's a race," Sherlock said simply.

"We can't take the same route," Thea added, hopping back into the room pulling her left sneaker on. "Whoever knows the better shortcut wins."

"Stakes?" Sherlock started to jump on the spot, shaking his arms a little.

"If you win, I go to funcle's feast of fear on my own the next two weeks and make excuses for you," said Thea.

"Oh, that's a good one," Sherlock admitted.

"Match that."

"If you win, I'll get you a brain."

"The whole thing?"

"Yup."

"And you won't touch it?"

"Nope."

"It's on!"

The Holmes' assumed starting positions.

"John, would you?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh my – fine," John shook his head. "On your marks – set – go!"

Sherlock leapt past Thea and, to John's puzzlement, disappeared up the stairs at top volume.

"Rooftops are cheating!" Thea shouted as she sprinted downstairs to the front door.


	5. Mind Tricks

Thea got out of the car, ascended the ridiculously scrubbed front steps and used the cheesy lion's head knocker.

"Dinner for two, is it?" Mycroft asked as soon as he'd opened the door.

"No – wait, what? Can't you see him?" Thea asked, eyes wide. "He's standing right beside me. Oh…apologies, that's my imaginary father, the one who can be

bothered."

Mycroft sighed and stepped aside, clearing passage to the hallway.

"What's for dinner?" Thea asked, dropping her bag on the floor.

"This is not a doss house," Mycroft admonished.

Thea groaned dramatically, picked up her bag and hung it on the coat rack.

"Please tell me it's a large piece of animal."

"As it happens, it is. And you'll be relieved to hear it's not being served in a plastic container."

"Splendid," Thea chirped, bouncing towards the dining room.

()

"Enjoying that, are you?" Mycroft's voice was dripping with sarcasm as he watched his niece cram another oversized hunk of roast lamb into her mouth.

"Out of this world," she replied merrily, propelling a shred of meat alarmingly close to Mycroft's own plate. "Pardon me."

"I understand you're used to fighting over the carcasses of kebabs with stray dogs, but please slow down," he said. "No one's going to steal your food and I

so enjoy your attempts at being civilised. They're highly amusing."

"Well, la-dee-da," Thea grinned, attempting to wedge the better part of a good-sized potato in as well.

"Have you come here with the sole purpose to vex me?"

"But you're so cute when you're vexed," she protested. "And I'm ever so good at being vexatious. Also-" she swallowed, with difficulty, "when it's only me, I

feel responsible to rev the engine, so to speak."

"Rev the engine?" Mycroft looked in pain. "Is this the kind of stunning eloquence they teach you at that _commune_."

"Naaaah," she drew it out, savouring his wince. "Though they do encourage creative expression."

Mycroft cut, chewed and swallowed pensively.

"Aside from that," he said finally, "are they managing to teach you anything new?"

" _New_ -new?"

"Don't be obtuse."

"They do, actually," Thea said thoughtfully.

"Such as?"

"Mind tricks."

"Why is it not possible for you to answer just one simple question without being unbecomingly-"

"I'm not," Thea interrupted, genuinely offended. "My – don't roll your eyes, it's a term you won't appreciate – curricular advisor has been teaching me these

amazing mind tricks, no joke."

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy this one, I can tell," Mycroft purred.

"So," Thea set her knife and for aside, folded one leg up on her chair and leaned over, resting both elbows on the table, causing her uncle to grip his own

cutlery a little tighter, "did you know, you can correct people without making them annoyed with you?"

Mycroft cocked his head ever so slightly.

"I know!" Thea exclaimed. "I didn't think it was possible either but apparently – and I've tried this a few times now and it is working like a charm-"

"Charms don't work," her uncle interrupted.

"Aha!" Thea pointed her finger at him triumphantly. "Charms as in incantationist mumbo-jumbo may not work, but charms as in social graces are like the

skeleton key to open all doors to all people. Anyway, if for example someone is about to completely ruin a cow's eyeball by cutting the epidermis lengthwise

rather than-"

"I'm eating!"

"-across, one might previously have responded by shouting: What are you doing, you utter twat?"

"Language."

"But if one instead says something along the lines of: Oh, just hang on a second, I seem to recall there's a better way of doing that, that won't get ocular

juices all over your shirt…people seem to respond almost gratefully. Isn't that interesting? It's almost too easy. No one's shouted at me since I've started."

"Oh my, and it's been a whole four days…"

"I know," Thea speared another potato. "It is the single most fun I've had at school in my life. I might join a band."

"They have an orchestra, do they?"

"No, I mean yes, they do, but that's not the same as a band, obviously."

"People who play music versus people who play music?"

"Now who is being obtuse? The instrumentation's all different."

"So you'll be showcasing that Frankenstein creation you turned your violin into, I presume."

"Presumption incorrect," Thea mashed her last potato into the gravy. "They need a drummer."

Mycroft looked as if he'd been stabbed.

"You see," Thea went on completely unperturbed, "Lisa, that's a girl in my chemistry group, and she plays the bass also, in that band…anyway, she was saying

I should come and try. And I was like-"

Mycroft held up his hands to stop her.

"You know I tolerate many things, but if you are going to become prone to an overuse of 'like', I shall have to make you disappear."

"And I said I didn't know if I could play the drums and then she was li- _observing_ that I had been drumming all day long and she thought I'd be good at it. So

now I'm going with her tomorrow to Marcus' place. They practise in the garden shed."

"That's nice." Her uncle's tone was clipped. "Astonishing, really, that your compulsive fidgeting should have a positive influence on your social life. Never did

anything for your poor father. How is he getting on by the way?"

"Good," Thea said lightly.

"You're monitoring?"

"Yes, I am. Nothing, not even cigarettes – he reckons his sense of smell is becoming hazardously keen though…" Thea tapped her fork against the plate

pensively. "Do cigarettes actually decrease your olfactory abilities?"

"Yes."

"A lot?"

"Depending on the strength of said senses and the amount you smoke, but yes, it can be significant."

"Huh. Anyway, did you know that the responsibility of monitoring an adult in this manner can crush children's fragile sense of security and cause depression

and co-dependency later in life? You're probably damaging me irreparably right now."

"True," Mycroft conceded. "Still, whatever damage I'm doing now could not possibly exceed the damage already done by the…wilderness years."

Thea studied her empty plate intently, feeling her uncle's eyes wandering her face like spiders. She knew what he was doing. While she monitored her father,

her uncle monitored her. Both of them were aware that it was highly unlikely that Thea would grass up her father directly, but they were equally aware that

she would not be able to hide it entirely if something was afoot. They didn't mention the 'wilderness years' often, although inventing names for this period of

relatively recent family history had become sport.

"The time of the Rubic's cube."

"The minotaur's labyrinth."

"The rabbit hole…"Thea whispered.

"Oh, that is apt," Mycroft said with a small smile, "and –" he cleared his throat and pushed his chair back decisively, "a perfect segue to the next part of our

evening. Shall we?"

"Yes – yes," Thea cleared her throat and took a steadying breath. "Bring it on!"

()

Minutes later Thea was seated in a gigantic armchair, turning over a large illustrated hard-cover of Alice in Wonderland.

"Begin," Mycroft prompted, standing over her in a way most people would have found unnerving.

"It's worn," Thea said slowly. "So it's probably been passed from one generation to the next, yes?"

"Don't question – observe, eliminate, deduce."

"I'd say-"

"Don't be vague."

"The grandmother used to have it as a little girl," Thea ventured cautiously. "She used to wear one of those bands in her hair, like Alice in the pictures, and she

would take the book out in the garden with her, in case a rabbit appeared, so she wouldn't get stuck on all the riddles. Then when she was a mother, she

would read the book to her children at night. The daughter liked it a lot, so much she wanted to read it herself but she was too small, so she got frustrated and

threw it against the wa- no, against the window sill. And her mother always held that against her, that she cracked the spine of that book, although she would

never have admitted. But when her daughter grew up and had daughters of her own, she didn't give her the book to read to them, she kept it at her house

and read it to her granddaughter when she stayed over. When she died, the book was the only thing the granddaughter asked for as a keepsake. And when

she had a daughter herself many years later, she named her Alice for the book and her grandmother's name as a second name."

The sitting room was quiet, except for the odd rumble of a car passing. Quite a few cars passed until Thea looked up at her uncle.

"That's it," she said.

"My, my," he said calmly, taking the book from her and replacing it on one of the vast bookshelves lining the wall. "Hasn't someone been busy practising?

Ah-ah-ah," he held up a finger warningly as Thea made to punch the air, "not so fast. The grandmother reading in the garden?"

"Seriously old looking dirt ingrained on the edge of the pages."

"The windowsill?"

"The weirdly sideways crack in the spine."

"How do we know a child threw the book?"

"Because the crack is on the top, so it would have been thrown from a low height."

"The fact that the daughter never had the book in her possession?"

"The faded lines from the sun hitting the cover on its place in the shelf, there's only two significant ones."

"The namesake?"

"Assumption," Thea admitted. "But based on the customs of sentimental people, which we are clearly dealing with, it seemed sufficiently probable."

"And finally – the Alice band."

"It's the bookmark."

"No it isn't. That's just an ordinary ribbon."

"It is not!" she insisted. "It's old, but not as old as the book, look, it has that weird crinkle at two places where they tied the bow, so I can actually even tell

you her head circumference if you like."

Mycroft smiled and there was nothing reptilian about it this time.

"Good."

For a moment Thea thought he was being sarcastic, but her uncle looked – as much as this was possible after a lifetime of being either exasperated or poker

faced – genuinely pleased.

"Did I get it all?"

"Of course not, that would be preposterous."

"Naturally," she grumbled, the elation at his earlier compliment fading fast.

"Now there, no need to be a misery guts about it," Mycroft said. "It's still worthy of a straight answer."

"Do you think it would be better being a goldfish?" Thea asked without a moment's hesitation.

Mycroft pursed his lips.

"It would be if one was born a goldfish," he said, "otherwise it would amount to little more than self-mutilation. Now, dessert?"


	6. Tea

Thea danced home, beating the walls and fences she passed with the drum sticks Marcus' had lend her so she could practise for next week's rehearsal. As she

drum-rolled her way along a hedge, stamping her feet in time, careful to hit puddles only when a hi-hat was required, happiness was fairly crashing over her, a

tsunami of joy threatening to drown her. It was almost too much, but only almost. This was – bar none – the best evening she had had in her life. Drumming,

she mused as she hammered ferociously on the hood of a parked car, was close to a miracle cure for the racing mind. It kept your hands, feet and brain

occupied and was nowhere near as fiddly – she high fived herself for the pun – as the violin. Playing violin you could still think, in fact you had to think, the

drums just blew everything else away. For the first time in living memory, her brain had shut up for hours at a time rather than minutes and while things came

flooding back now with a vengeance, Thea seemed no illusions about this being a permanent state, but it was very nice while it lasted.

She arrived at the door of 221B just as her father and John were exciting a cab, looking nearly as cheerful as herself.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she shouted, belabouring the knocker in a tempo that left the sticks a blur.

"Madam." Sherlock nodded with a smirk.

"Are you just getting home?" John asked. "Now?"

"Obviously," both Holmes said at once.

"Do you know what time it is?"

"What is it with you and the time?" Sherlock asked. "You're a slave to your watch."

Thea moved her drumming from the knocker to the doorframe to make room for him to unlock the door.

"It's two-thirty in the morning!" They were trouping up the stairs in single file and John sounded exasperated. "If you were going over to practise after school,

how is it your only back eleven hours later?"

"Ah," said Thea, glad she's unravelled the source of his confusion. "Fair point, we actually stopped practise at about eleven so Marcus' neighbours don't

complain."

"And for the last three-and-a-half hours you've been doing what exactly?" John asked. "And you," he turned to Sherlock, "aren't you at least marginally

concerned?"

Sherlock shrugged vaguely.

"I had a cup of tea with Marcus and his mum – she's really nice by the way – and then I walked home," Thea explained calmly.

"Walked home from where?" asked John.

"Wembley."

"That's like seven miles away," John said incredulously.

"What took you so long?" Sherlock asked with moderate to no interest.

"Stopped at the cemetery for a bit."

"St Mary's?" Sherlock took off his scarf.

"Kensal Green."

"Fair enough," her father kicked off his shoes and made for the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Please," said Thea, trying to replicate a triple paradiddle on the sofa cushions. "Do we have any biscuits?"

"Is that it?" John was nothing short of flabbergasted now, perhaps also a tiny touch appalled.

"Is what what?" Sherlock asked from inside the cabinet he was ransacking for ginger nuts.

"Your ten-year-old traverses half the city in the dead of night and all you have to say is _tea_?"

Father and daughter looked at him with eerily similar flickers of confusion in their pale eyes.

"D'you really not see anything at least slightly irregular about this situation?"

"If you put it that way," Sherlock conceded, "it's true, she doesn't usually socialise but that was the point of all our recent hullaballoo about lack of company,

wasn't it?"

"No," John exclaimed in frustration. "I mean, yes it was…but-"

"Oooh…"Sherlock's face lit up with understanding. "I'm meant to ask."

"Yes."

"Did you enjoy…being with people?" Sherlock asked.

"It was amazing!" Thea trilled gleefully. "We played some really sick jams, it was wild. One got really out of order, it just went and went for about twenty

minutes and then Marcus broke two guitar strings in the middle of this insane solo and –"

"I don't believe this," John muttered. "She is _ten_. She just _walked_ home from bloody _Wembley_."

"Why didn't you take the train, come to think of it?" Sherlock inquired.

"Lost my oyster card, anyway-"

"Oh for God's sake, that's it, I'm getting you a bicycle, this is getting ridiculous," Sherlock snapped.

"Will you?" Thea beamed. "Great! Can I have one of those kryptonite locks, too?"

"If you insist."

"Children," John shouted, "are not meant to wander the streets at this time of night!"

"Dull," Thea and Sherlock replied as one.

"Let alone gallivant around cemeteries," John continued.

"It's actually very pretty at night, Kensal Green," Thea said earnestly. "The mausoleums are just gorgeous."

"They are," Sherlock agreed.

"Have you heard of a thing called duty of care?" John asked hotly.

"People do mention this from time to time. But I doubt they recall what it's like being a child."

"But you do, do you?"

"Enough to see the appeal and benefit of a good old explore."

"You cannot be serious."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Anything could have happened!"

"Actually, there are about twelve possible-"

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Don't shout at him," Thea interceded, noticing a tell-tale twitch of discomfort tugging at the corners of her father's mouth. "I'm fine, aren't I? So there. I've

done it many times before. Now, don't ruin a perfectly pleasant evening, because you don't understand, okay? It's lovely of you to be worried about me getting

raped and murdered or whatever seems to be your horror scenario of choice, but it's really not likely that something bad will happen to me. Okay?"

"Is that what he's worried about?" Sherlock gave his daughter a sceptical look.

"Of course it is," Thea sighed. "That's the sort of thing people worry about."

With a bemused shake of the head, Sherlock disappeared into the next kitchen cupboard.

"You're mad, both of you," John said, defeated for the moment.

"Mad's a bit harsh," Sherlock smirked. "We're interesting."

"Challenging," Thea chimed in.

"Individualists."

"Idiosyncratic."

"Oh, that's very nice," said Sherlock, emerging with half a packet of scotch fingers held high in triumph. "Biscuit well-deserved."


	7. Boredom

Thea looked up from her laptop to see her father emerging from his room in tracksuit pants and a hooded jumper.

Going for a run," he announced.

"I'll come," she said immediately, slamming the screen down.

"You're too slow. I want to actually exert myself."

"I'll ride the bike."

"There will be stairs."

"I've got shock absorbers," she said, careful to maintain a tone of absolute nonchalance. "I go down stairs all the time."

"You're working on something," he changed tactics.

"I was just finished actually," Thea lied.

"No you weren't."

"I was," she rose and positioned herself between Sherlock and the door. "Some people annoyed some people, a bunch of them met in a field with bayonets,

most were killed, the side with most survivors won, Bob's your uncle."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his hands opening and closing, opening closing, opening…closing.

"Wouldn't you rather go see a film? Here," He smiled enticingly pulling a twenty pound note from his pocket. "You can take one of those cretins from school. Get

food afterwards."

"Nah, I need the exercise."

"How about-"

"I'll just get my shoes," Thea said loudly. "John?"

John, who'd long abandoned the task of writing his blog to observe the odd exchange, looked at her expectantly.

"Can you not let him leave until I'm back? I'll be ten seconds."

"Sure," he said uncertainly.

Thea ran from the room.

"Cheerio," Sherlock said innocently, bolting for the door.

"Hang on," John started after him, catching him on the stairs. "Don't give your own daughter the slip, she wants to spend some time with you, clearly."

"Ah, yes, very sweet and all," Sherlock said drily, trying to pass him. "But she's just going to slow me down."

"So go for another run later, when she's at school."

"It's Friday, she'll be hanging around all weekend, pestering me."

"Don't be an arse-"

"Here I am," Thea hollered, taking the stairs two at a time on the way down. "Man, am I pumped for some running, wouldn't miss it for the world."

For a moment father and daughter were locked in a silent stare-off, leaving John increasingly bewildered.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped finally and stomped back upstairs.

Thea sat down heavily, breathing in and out with complete concentration. John sat down next to her.

"Care to tell me what that was about?" he asked.

"Guess he didn't feel like running," she muttered, though she couldn't quite hide her shaking hands.

"Oh really."

"Look, it's complicated." She cleared her throat. "Haven't you got a case on or something?"

John shrugged.

"No, it's been a bit quiet for the last couple of weeks, actually."

"Bollocks."

"What is going on?" John tried again.

"Nothing," Thea said sharply. "He's just getting a bit bored, is all."

"I'm sure he'll think of something to distract himself."

"Yea," Thea laughed mirthlessly. "Me too."

She got up and left an utterly puzzled John behind on the stairs.

()

John had just returned his attention to his computer, vaguely aware of Sherlock setting small fires to substances in petri dishes in the kitchen, when there was

a small shriek from the upstairs. Footsteps followed and a moment later, Thea entered the room, her right hand stretched out in front of her.

"What the hell happened to you?" John shouted, jumping from his seat.

Thea's right hand was dripping blood and was so studded with fine needles it resembled a porcupine. She walked straight past him, ignoring him completely

and shoved her hand across the kitchen table at Sherlock.

"Help me," she demanded.

"Help yourself," he said, gazing into the bright purple flame in front of him.

"I can't," she said evenly. "I'm bleeding. I've hurt myself."

"Lucky we've got a doctor on the premises."

John was in the kitchen with them now and was reaching for Thea's arm.

"Don't," she snapped at him.

"What did you do?" John asked. "Are those acupuncture needles?"

"I was trying to do something and it went wrong." Thea kept her eyes on her father, who refused to divert his attention from his equipment, even though the

fire had burnt itself out. "I need help."

"Let me bloody look at it then!" John's voice rose with his frustration.

"Go away," she said with strange steel in her voice. "I want my _daddy_."

The word felt alien in her mouth and it sounded all wrong. Sherlock snorted.

"Adorable," he said.

"Enough." John grabbed Thea by the arm and dragged her to the sofa, physically pushing her onto it. "Whatever little game you two are playing, it's time for a

break. You're bleeding all over the place, now let me see."

"Fuck off," Thea growled. "I don't-"

"Let her bleed out, John," Sherlock intoned from the kitchen. "See how far she'll take this for a bit of attention."

"You are an arse," John shouted. "And you," he turned on Thea "are completely out of order. Stop moving your hand about and let me get the needles out.

Where's the bloody disinfectant?"

"I've sterilised-"

"I don't care," John snapped.

"I think we're all out," Sherlock said with sudden interest, abandoning his post in the kitchen.

"Well, go get some."

"No!" Thea yelled. "Don't you-"

"Back in a jiffy," her father sang out and bolted from the room.

Thea turned on John with white-hot fury.

"Why, you meddling imbecile, why?" she shouted.

John gripped her wrist and started pulling the needles from her hand, shaking his head.

"Why would you do something this stupid?" he asked.

"Distraction," she said, the fight leaving her as soon as it had boiled up.

"Try and distract yourself a little less destructively next time, maybe?"

"Not me – _him_!" Thea looked towards the door.

"Look, I don't know what's up with your dad," John said calmly, plucking away, amazed at the number of needles she'd managed to put in, "but he'll be back in

a minute and I'm sure-"

Thea rolled her eyes at him.

"He's not going to be back any minute," she sighed. "Any day, maybe, and that's being recklessly optimistic."

John pulled out the last of the needles and went to find a bandage. When he returned Thea was pulling on her jacket.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going out to look before this gets completely stupid," Thea said.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"I haven't got time for this." Thea sounded like a forty-something year old shelf stacker at the end of a long day.

"Talk as we walk," John announced and grabbed his jacket also.

()

John followed Thea in silence for half an hour as she turned corners, back tracked and ducked into alleys and doorways with a scowl on concentration. It wasn't

until they were wandering towards an abandoned looking industrial building when he lost his patience.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "It's worth a try at least."

"Why are we chasing after your father?"

"He doesn't do so well when he gets bored."

John stopped and took hold of Thea's arm, forcing her to stop two.

"Stop being cryptic and tell me what's happening, so that maybe I can actually do something of value to help."

"There's nothing-"

"Spill it."

"Fine," she spat, "alright, fine. When he gets bored, he has a tendency to wander off into some dingy part of town, purchase some heroin and inject it. With a

needle. Into his veins. And then he has a little relax until he gets bored again and takes some more and so on and so forth until something better comes along

to alleviate the boredom. Is that precise enough for you?"

"Blimey."

"Oh, I see, you were right, that is _so_ helpful." Thea ripped her arm away and started trotting towards the building.

"What if nothing comes along to alleviate the boredom?" John asked, catching up with her at the door.

"Oh, just shut up."

Thea knocked.

"Fuck off!" Someone called from inside.

"Let me in," she shouted. "I've got a guy, we'll just need a mattress for a half hour, right? I'll go you halves when he's paid me, alright?"

John stared at her in horror.

"What the hell-"

"Just shut up and look creepy," she hissed.

The door opened and Thea pushed past the scraggly figure on the other side with no hesitation.

"Oh, it's you," it croaked. "Should've said. He ain't here, just missed him."

"I'll look for myself, if it's all the same to you," Thea shouted without slowing down, racing up the stairs. John followed, but by the time he reached the top

landing, Thea was already on her way back.

"Not here," she said.

"And-"

"Next place," she said darkly.

()

It was almost midnight when John attempted to put his foot down.

"We've been running around for six hours now, Thea," he said gently. "We should check at home."

She shook her head, looking even paler than usual in the light of the street lamp.

"One more," she said almost pleadingly. "It's just around the corner."

"And if he's not around the corner?"

"Then one more."

"This is ridiculous."

"I know."

Thea sat down on the curb and rubbed her face.

"Does he do this a lot?" John asked, sitting down next to her.

"No, not recently," she said, her voice thick with the threat of tears.

"Okay," John got up and offered her his hand. "One more. But that's it. If he's not home tomorrow morning, we go look again, but there's no use in keeping

going until you collapse. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Thea sighed. "Come on."

She led John down the road, around the corner and they were faced with a seemingly endless underpass, lit sporadically with buzzing led lights.

"Charming spot," John said as lightly as he could manage as Thea started into the tunnel.

They passed a few bundles on mattresses, shopping carts filled with decaying treasures parked almost neatly next to them. When they could almost see the

exit on the other side, Thea suddenly sped up. She came to a stop in front of a torn camping chair. In it, his feet propped up on an empty plastic crate, slept

Sherlock.

For a while John and Thea just looked at him in silence. Thea reached into her father's coat pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper.

"What's that?" John asked.

"Can you get him up?" Thea asked quietly.

"Yes," John replied, his jaw set grimly. "Although I'd prefer to just leave him here to be beaten up and mugged."

"Yea, well…" Thea took her first properly deep breath in many hours. "Can you get him up anyway?"

John looped Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and dragged him to his feet. Some mumbles emanated from the floppy shell, but he was by no means steady

enough to be of any assistance.

"Come out this way," Thea instructed, walking ahead as John struggled with Sherlock's uncooperative form after her.

By the time he made it out of the underpass, sweating and swearing under his breath, Thea was standing on the street corner. John leaned his cargo against

the wall, steadying him with a hand on his chest and watched in strange fascination as Thea turned her face towards a CCTV camera and started to sing.

"Every time…we say goodbye, I die…a little," she sang, her voice cracking slightly.

Sherlock groaned.

"Shut up," John snapped at him. "What's she doing?"

"Why the God's above me, who must be in the know," Thea continued, "think so little of me, they allow you to go? When you're near-"

A car slowed and stopped, Thea turned and leaned into the opening window, speaking quietly with the driver. A moment later, two burly characters exited,

took Sherlock off John's hands and proceeded to fold him into the back seat.

Thea in the meantime was arguing with the driver.

"I'm not coming," she told him. "I'm going home – no – look, he's taking me home, him over there."

John didn't catch the driver's reply, but it was clearly persuasive.

"Bollocks," Thea shouted. "Fine. Come on, John."

()

As the evening was unlikely to regain any normal equilibrium, John walked slowly to the car and got in the back.

Thea was scratching the arm of the sofa, slowly working a tear into the fabric.

Mycroft was staring out of the window, watching a particularly discreet member of the medical community making his way to a waiting car.

"Would you like anything?" he asked.

"I'll have one of those." Thea indicated the generous measures of scotch both her uncle and John were working on.

"I don't think so," Mycroft said wearily.

"Fine. I'll have a jar of Nutella and a table spoon."

"That can be arranged."

Thea continued her assault on the furniture. After some minutes one of the burly men entered the room, bearing nothing other than a jar of Nutella and the

requested spoon.

"So," Mycroft turned and searched his nieces face. She was giving her full attention to shovelling chocolate into her mouth.

"Did you take it?"

Thea dug the paper from her pocket and shoved it at him, the spoon between her teeth like a pirate dagger.

"Thank you." Mycroft's tone was clipped.

"You're welcome," Thea mumbled through a mouthful of Nutella.

"What is that?" John asked.

"The list," Thea said, setting her jar on the floor and the starting on her little destruction zone with the spoon. "Of whatever he's taken. Oh, stop scowling,"

she rolled her eyes at her uncle, "it's not even that bad."

"It's sufficiently appalling," he disagreed, perusing his brother's horrendous scrawl.

The spoon's handle ripped into the armrest violently.

"It's barely anything."

"Why are you defending him?" John asked. "You just spent all night running from one crack den to the next-"

"Shut up," she hissed.

"Filial loyalty is a touching thing," Mycroft said. "And in this case also completely misdirected verging on stupid."

"Whatever."

"I'm aware you've had a trying evening, but do attempt to watch your attitude." Mycroft winced when the spoon handle struck wood deep inside the arm rest.

"Modelling yourself in the image of your idiot father is rather unbecoming."

"Quite so." Thea stood, leaving the spoon protruding from the sofa. "May I go see him now?"

"I don't see why you would want to but, yes, you may."

()

On her way upstairs, Thea picked up a vase. She dumped the flowers unceremoniously on the carpet, entered the guest room and poured the remaining

contents over Sherlock's sleeping face. He spluttered into consciousness, wrestling with the sheet.

"Oh," he said plainly when he'd gotten his bearings.

Thea threw the vase at him with all her might, he ducked and it shattered on the bed head.

"Your fat uncle's going to be cross about that," he muttered, plucking bits of china from his hair.

She stood, staring at him, shaking with rage.

"Why the long face?" Sherlock attempted to right himself into a sitting position.

"You."

"It's genetic, I suppose."

"You're impossible."

"Improbable."

"For God's sake!" Thea screamed on the top of her lungs. "How many times do I have to tell you? I don't mind if you're never home when I get back from

school. I don't mind if you don't speak to me because you're doing a _thing_. I do not mind if you walk around in your pyjamas for days or that there's never any

food in the house or that you never ask me how my day was. You can do whatever you like, but you are not-" she punched his leg under the sheet to

punctuate "-allowed-" again "-any-" again "-heroin!"

She turned on her heel and made for the door.

"Where you going?" Sherlock asked a little shakily.

"Away," she snapped.

"Could you not?"

"You're unworthy." Thea found it impossible to take the last two steps into the hallway. "You're just a smackhead."

"Only occasionally…"

"It's not funny," she groaned. "What if they send you away because I can't watch you properly?"

"Shouldn't that be my line?" he asked.

"It's not though, is it?" Thea leaned her forehead against the door frame. "My head hurts. You've given me a head ache."

"If you're so worried, why did you call in reinforcements?"

"Because it's misjudging your condition would make me look bad."

Sherlock disentangled himself from the bedding and got to his feet a little unsteadily.

"Stay away," Thea said unconvincingly.

Her father traversed the room like a tightrope walker and slid down to the floor opposite her, leaning his back against the door.

"You're all fuzzy around the edges," he observed.

Thea closed her eyes in a futile attempt to contain impending leakage.

"Spawn…"

"Don't you dare."

"A once off, you know that."

"How could I possibly know that?" Thea was wrestling for control over her voice now, the tears straining at her eyelids like little yipping dogs.

"You're a clever girl," Sherlock said softly.

"Well, you're an idiot, so there's no telling what you'll do, is there."

"I won't do anything."

"Liar. No one can't do anything. Not unless their dead."

"And that would be insufferably boring, wouldn't it? Not to mention sloppy."

"Overdoses happen all the time."

"Not to me."

Thea didn't answer. Her face was wet.

"Does your head hurt that badly?" Her father pushed himself up slowly until semi-standing.

She shook her head.

"You should lie down," he said.

"So should you," she sniffed.

Sherlock took her shoulders and steered her towards the bed.

"Hang on," she said, when he made to lay on it.

Thea peeled off the top sheet, which was covered in sharp bits of vase and proceeded to sprinkle the debris over the carpet.

"Take off your shoes," she demanded.

To her surprise, he obeyed. Thea took his shoes and threw them through the open door into the hallway.

"And your socks."

Sherlock balled them up and tossed them after the shoes.

They lay on the double bed, both staring at the ceiling.

"How's the hand?" Sherlock asked just as Thea thought he'd fallen asleep.

"Like you give a toss."

"Acupuncture," he mused. "I never could make up my mind about that."

"Maybe I should practise on you," Thea huffed.

"That sound only fair," Sherlock conceded.

"Really? Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"On your feet?"

"Sure."

"Abdomen, too?"

"Okay."

"Can I do your face?"

"If you want, spawn."

"Guilt is a magical thing," Thea whispered, closing her eyes.


	8. Ventriloquist

On his way to the bathroom Sherlock tripped over his sleeping daughter, who had cocooned herself in her quilt and blocked the hallway. The wall broke his fall,

his face narrowly missing the corner of the radiator.

"Where you going?" Thea jolted upright and shone a torch on her father, blinding him momentarily.

"To relief myself, if it's okay with you," he groaned.

His face was still tender from providing a platform for her acupuncture practise and the impact of the wall had done little to alleviate his discomfort.

"Be my guest." Thea readjusted her blanket and curled up on the floor again.

"You are being utterly ridiculous," Sherlock muttered when he exited the bathroom moments later.

"Safe not sorry," she grumbled.

"Well, I'm awake now. You've aggravated me into full consciousness. Well done."

"Likewise."

Thea sat up and stretched. The floor did not make for a suitable bed.

"Make yourself useful and put the kettle on," her father ordered.

"Where are you-"

"I'm getting my robe," he snapped. "Am I allowed?"

"Touchy, touchy… anyone would think you're hanging out."

Sherlock massaged the bridge of his nose vigorously.

"One does not hang out after one, single, isolated slip of will power, you incompetent pain in the arse."

While Thea waited for the kettle to boil, her father stomped back into the room and plonked himself onto the sofa, wrapping his robe around him tightly.

"How long are you going to keep up this pathetic vigil of yours?" he demanded.

"Until I'm satisfied that you're not going to do anything stupid," she answered calmly. "You'll thank me one day."

Sherlock groaned dramatically.

"So," Thea sat his cup on the floor in front of the sofa. "Seeing as we're up…d'you want to play something?"

He rolled his eyes at her.

"Come on…"

"Don't pester me to play innate board games when I'm already annoyed with you."

"Aha!" Thea called triumphantly. "But it's not booooored games, it's something new. Lisa and Marcus play it all the time in free period, it's called 'Ventriloquist'."

Her father pretended to nod off, drooling slightly.

"Don't knock it til you've tried," Thea persisted. "You'll love it, it'll be your new favourite thing."

"I'm sure your little playmates are incredibly amusing to you," Sherlock said somewhat haughtily, "but I very much doubt-"

"Shut up and give me your phone."

"No."

"Please? We can't play without a phone."

"Too bad."

"Just one round!" Thea pleaded.

"If I don't enjoy whatever innate diversion you're suggesting, do you promise you will stop your siege?"

"Promise," she said without hesitation. "Phone."

Sherlock dug his phone from the depth of his robe's pocket and passed it over.

"Okay," Thea grinned broadly. "Now, pharmacy or pizza?"

"What?"

"Pharmacy. Or. Pizza."

"Pharmacy."

"Excellent choice." Thea dialled but did not yet press call. "Okay, here's how it works. You're the ventriloquist. You call the 24-hour pharmacy and whoever

answers the phone is your ventriloquist's dummy – only the person who answers the phone first, if you get put through to someone else you lose, clear?"

"Just get on with it…"

"The aim of the game," Thea continued, "is to make your dummy say the magic words, which in this case shall be…uhm… 'frontal lobotomy'. And before you ask

– no. You may not use the magic words yourself. If you say 'frontal' or 'lobotomy' you are disqualified."

For a moment Sherlock regarded her in silence, his face giving nothing away.

"I see," he said finally, holding out his hand for the phone.

"Loudspeaker," Thea commanded.

"Paddington On-Call Pharmacy, you're speaking with Ellen."

"Ah, yes, good evening, Ellen," said Sherlock, his voice cracking with exhaustion. "Or is it good morning…"

Thea had to admire his skill when it came to doing voices.

"Either will do, sir," Ellen said with valiant cheer for someone working at 3.40 am. "How can I help?"

"Yes, right, you see, it's a little complicated…" Sherlock coughed into the phone violently.

"Coming down with a cold, sir?"

"No, lovely of you to ask, but no," Sherlock rasped. "I'm not calling for me, it's on my brother's behalf. See," he coughed some more, "he's come over all funny

since he got home from the hospital. And I can't for the life of me," spectacular cough, "remember where I put the whatsit that had the notes about his

medications."

"Oh, I see." Thea could virtually see Ellen beating her head against her desk. "What's his symptoms then, sir?"

"I believe he's got a head ache."

"Would you say it's moderate or severe?"

"Pretty severe, I'd say."

Thea pressed a sofa cushion to her mouth to stifle any sound of mirth.

"When was your brother discharged from hospital?" Ellen asked.

"Oh, I don't know exactly." Sherlock gave Thea a pointed look and she bit into the cushion. "He's sort of just turned up a few hours ago. He's still in the gown

and all."

"Oh." Ellen sounded suitably surprised. "Well. What was he being treated for?"

"He had one of them procedures," said Sherlock. "To fix his head."

"Could you be just a little more specific, sir?" Ellen was all ears now in the face of a potential emergency.

"He used to get these rages, see…" Sherlock cleared his throat. "Terrible, terrible thing. Made him attack people, family, strangers, all sorts... And he's a big

fella, too, so no joke. It's like a bull charging ya…"

"Sir," Ellen interrupted. "What procedure did your brother undergo, please?"

"'twas a…now…come one…."

Thea shook her head warningly, the cushion still between her teeth.

"Oh, damn me, I can't remember for the life of me…"

"Is your brother with you now?" Ellen asked.

"Yea, he's right here – now, Barry, don't put that in yer mouth, you daft old sod – why?"

"Could you describe his appearance to me, sir?"

"Ah…sure…he's about six foot four, heavy bastard-"

"No, sir," Ellen interrupted, a touch exasperated. "Can you describe to me any marks, bandages, scarring from this 'procedure'?"

"He's got marks alright," Sherlock coughed enthusiastically. "On his temples, like."

"What sort of marks exactly?"

"Round ones."

"Anything else?"

"Not really…look, are you going to help me out or not?"

"Sir," Ellen said primly. "I am doing my very best to get a handle on your situation, but what you are describing to me gives very little away, unless your brother

has been subject to a frontal lobotomy and frankly," her voice dripped with sarcasm now, "I find this rather unlikely."

"If you're going to be like this, I'll take my business elsewhere," Sherlock snapped and hung up.

Thea removed the cushion and let out a long overdue fit of giggles.

"Before you say anything," said her father, "I want you to know I didn't enjoy that at all."

"Yea, you did."

"Yea, I did." Sherlock rubbed his hands. "Right, your turn. Taxi dispatch or emergency locksmith?"

"Ooooh….locksmith."

"As you wish," her father's nimble fingers tapped out the number. "Your magic words are 'gentlemen's agreement'."

"Now that," Thea took the phone from him, "is some next level shit!"

"Good to see you're working on increasing your breadth of expression," Sherlock muttered.

"Shush," she snapped. "It's ringing."


	9. Homework

She'd have to cut her nose off. There was no other solution. Slice, dice, amputate – it would be bliss. The coffee table was covered with perfume testers, stack

of them, eighty-seven of the accursed things. Thea had gone through thirty-five of them and could feel the beginnings of a killer headache already. From the

gigantic piece of butchers' paper taped to the wall in front of her, fifty-two empty pen-drawn boxes glared at her.

"I don't hear any writing or sniffing," said Sherlock, startling her. He'd been off inside the palace for the better part of two hours.

"This is pointless," Thea moaned. "It's also cruel."

"So get on with it."

Thea ripped open another tester and inhaled, gagging a little, picked up her marker and filled out the box labelled #36. _Eugenol, benzyl acetate, phellandrene,_

 _geraniol_ …

Her father appeared at her shoulder, assessing the work she'd done with demoralising speed.

"Quite good. But you are infuriatingly slow," he said with a deep sigh of disappointment.

"That's because my nose is about to explode," she snapped. "This is gross."

Sherlock leaned even closer and crossed out _cyclododecanon_ in #12 and wrote _cyclohexadecanon_ instead.

"Get away," Thea buried her face in her hands. "Stop messing with my chart – why do you smell like that?"

"Like what?" he asked innocently.

"Citronellol…are you going looking for floaters again?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"Because stagnant water attracts mosquitoes and you're wearing insect repellent, which you hate," said Thea.

"Pointless, is it?" Sherlock's grin made him look a little evil.

"I hate you," Thea said tonelessly and ripped open tester #37.

"Good," her father said cheerfully. "Then you'll be glad to know that the dungeon master has time for you this evening."

"I'm meant to be on holidays," she exclaimed. "Doing fun things, hanging out with my friends, going to the pool-"

"Not with the swimming again," Sherlock groaned.

"- instead you and Funcle Mycroft are burying me in homework – it's boring!"

"If this bores you, you might need something a little more challenging."

"Wha- no, I didn't mean-"

"There's a car coming to pick you up in about an hour," Sherlock said with a smile. "If you finish these before you have to go, I'll show you how to make a very

small bomb tomorrow."

"How small?"

"Extremely small. Non-lethal. But perfectly sufficient for destroying a letter box."

"You promise?"

"Unless I'm otherwise engaged, yes." He rolled his eyes. "Now will you at least attempt to focus?"

"Shut up," she said, marker at the ready. "You're ruining my concentration."

()

When Thea entered her uncle's hallway, her elation about tomorrow's impeding lesson in explosives evaporated. The door to the small room where Mycroft

kept the projector was ajar.

"Come in," she heard his voice from the other side.

Thea stopped by the door, pushing it open cautiously. The lights were on, stark and too bright.

"Can't we just do some-" she started.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and cocked his head slightly.

"I don't like this," Thea said, annoyed at how meek she sounded.

"In you come," Mycroft said, entirely unmoved. "This won't hurt a bit."

Thea stepped into the room as gingerly as one might enter a mine field.

"Close the door."

For a while the only sound was slight buzz of the fluorescent light above.

"Could we not?" Thea attempted one more time, knowing very well that all appeal was in vain.

Her uncle shook his head in mild amusement.

"Beginning in three…two…one…"

The light went out, the room erupted in hideous white noise and the walls came alive with shaky images of people walking, talking on phones, laughing over

coffees, crying at bus stops…all of it at frantic speed.

It took all of Thea's willpower to keep from curling up into a ball on the floor and rock.

"What are we having for dinner?" Mycroft shouted over the mayhem.

"Salmon!" Thea yelled. It was a wild stab in the dark. She had nothing to support it other than the fact that there'd been lamb the last time, meaning it was

likely to be something else tonight. Also, her uncle liked salmon.

The volume increased, the images on the wall now had audio competing with the white noise. No salmon then.

"Do not guess again!"

Thea closed her eyes and attempted…anything. Had he told her? He'd not told her that would have been too easy. Had her father hinted? No. Just dinner,

dinner, dinner…Women shrieking, children shouting, crackling, hissing, bacon in the pan….

"What's for dinner?"

She opened her eyes and for a moment she felt as though she was on a gravitron.

"Pizza!" she shouted.

"The people on the north wall are having pizza-" the sound went up some more, the images became faster "What are _we_ having for dinner?"

Shit, shit, shit, who gave a shit about dinner? On the west wall a man was beating a dog, someone was singing the Marseillaise, cars were honking…Thea

pressed her hands over her ears and screwed her eyes shut, trying to picture the dining room, which was of course completely useless because she wasn't a

fortune teller, was she, no….

"Tell me!"

"Lamb roast!"

Her hand were pulled from her ears and she clenched her fists, gripping the fabric of her trouser legs. Legs…right…walking…Thea forced the image of the front

steps into her mind. Walking up the stairs, through the door, into the hallway…right into the chamber of horrors…no…no…back! Back into the hallway. Had the

door to the dining room been open? Had she seen the table?

"What is for dinner?"

"I don't know!"

A high pitched wail, like tinnitus on steroids entered the fracas.

"Stop!"

"What's for dinner?"

The hallway, the hallway, the hallway…no, you don't see dinner…but you can smell dinner! So…standing in the hallway…what smells…floor wax, cigarette

smoke, acetic acid…acetic acid…vinegar!…bloody vinegar? Thea forced her breathing to slow…radio static hammering into her ears without mercy…vinegar. She

opened her eyes and searched for her uncle in the strobing technicolour of the projections. He was standing perfectly still by the west wall, staring at her

intently. Vinegar. Thea made herself see Mycroft, trying to ignore the assault of imagery, isolating him. The light had been on long enough when she came in.

What had she noticed? There were droplets on his shoes…it was drizzling outside…he'd been just out. Had he? The hallway…the coat rack…umbrella stand!

Yes, the umbrella hadn't been closed fully, drying out. Vinegar… wet outside…lightning struck a tree projected on the west wall and for a second Mycroft was

illuminated perfectly. There was a smudge on the cuff of his white shirt…greyish…blackish? Vinegar…outside…smudge…

"What are we-"

He'd gone out to get food, carried it through the rain, the wrapping got wet, the newspaper wrapping got wet…the smell was still lingering in the hallway

because he'd only just got home or he would have changed his shoes…

"Fish'n'chips!" Thea screamed hoarsely.

It stopped.

Thea sat down on the floor, rubbing her face, breathing.

"Now was that so hard?" Mycroft asked.

She looked up at him through spread fingers, frowning.

"Fish and bloody chips?" she asked incredulous.

Her uncle's thin lips gave the tiniest hint of a smile.

"I thought you'd be pleased."

She laughed weakly.

"We'd better attend to it soon," said Mycroft. "It's even more ghastly when it's cold."

Thea got up awkwardly.

"Eating fish and chips in the dining room is perverse," she said.

"Surely no more perverse that eating this sort of thing at all."

()

It was possible that Mycroft only used a knife and fork on his fish'n'chips to annoy Thea, if it was so, it was working.

"You," he said in between bites, "need to work on finding anchor points."

"I just need to keep the doors closed," Thea mumbled through a mouthful of chips.

"That would of course be best," Mycroft agreed. "But that's by far the harder skill to master."

"Can I have an aspirin or something?" she asked.

"It's not a headache," her uncle said not unkindly. "You're processing. You've been overstimulated, some after-effects are to be expected."

Thea tried to focus on chewing her food. She felt buzzed and a little wrung out. As she was working her way through the fish, surprised at her own appetite,

something occurred to her.

"Is that why he always tells you about food when he comes here?"

Every time he entered his brother's home, Sherlock would without fail announce the last meal Mycroft had consumed or whatever thing they were about to eat

together. _Really, Mycroft, it's not like you couldn't do without Sheppard's pie_ or _You know I dislike rigatoni, brother mine_ and _Blanc mange is crack for the fat man_ …all

the time. As soon as he was across the threshold. It was like a reflex, actually, Thea realised, not _like_ a reflex but straight up a reflex. Only until this evening

she'd thought the reflex was to insult her uncle, something her father was prone to do.

"I did tutor him," Mycroft said vaguely.

"Did you do the same thing with him?"

Mycroft sat his cutlery down.

"The principle was the same," he admitted, "but the set-up was nowhere near as effective. It was just distorted music and flashing lights in the broom closet,

but one makes do."

Thea attempted to imagine her father as a boy being tormented by too much noise in a broom closet while his brother shouted at him about dinner. No wonder

eating wasn't high on his priority list.

"How do I compare?" she asked.

"To your father?"

"At the same age," she specified.

"It's a difficult comparison to make."

They let this statement hang in the air for a while.

"I'm rubbish, aren't I?" Thea asked finally.

"Rubbish, no," Mycroft said firmly. "Slower and more easily distracted, yes. But-" he cut her off as she opened her mouth, "you have to consider respective

environments. His was almost free of corrupting influences. We lived in the same house and I made him practise daily, in one form or another, from a very

young age. And even then," Mycroft conceded, "he was never fond of this particular exercise."

"Does that actually surprise you?" Thea asked. "Because you do sound a little surprised."

"At least we can safely say you're evenly matched in terms of ingratitude."

Thea pushed her finished plate away and leant back. She was pleasantly surprised to find her headache gone.

"I told you it would pass."

Thea knew he knew because she'd stopped her slight squinting, because her jaw line was relaxed and she didn't wince with every movement, but the delivery

was still so smooth it gave Mycroft the air of a mind reader.

"So," he said, "three minutes and forty-seven seconds, Alethea."

"Seriously?" She stared at him. "It felt like half an hour!"

"Am I in the habit of joking?"

"I'm awesome!"

"It's adequate," Mycroft allowed, which was as close to a high five as one could ever wish to get.

"So…"Thea prompted.

"Yes?"

"What did I win?"

"You got your straight answer half a conversation ago. That's it for treats, I'm all out."

"But-"

"Information is made valuable by way of intelligent usage."

"Oh, dull."

()

When Thea got back to Baker Street, mellow violin sounds drifted down the stairs to meet her. It lend the place a deceptively peaceful air, Thea smirked. She

walked into the living room quietly, just as Sherlock was finishing.

"Huh," she said, "so the one night I'm not here you actually eat?"

Her father cocked his head.

"Is there any pad thai left?"

"I saved you some," he said.

"That's uncharacteristically thoughtful."

"I wasn't sure you'd have eaten."

"We had fish'n'chips."

Her father's nose twitched almost imperceptibly.

"With vinegar?"

"A veritable ton thereof," she sighed. "Thankfully."

"Tea?"

She nodded and folded herself onto the sofa. The room seemed incredibly nice and quiet. Calm. A cup was delivered to her. Nice.

"How long?" Sherlock asked, taking the other end of the sofa, which was highly irregular.

"Under four minutes." Thea blew in her tea.

"That long? With all that vinegar?"

"Well," Thea sipped pensively, "yes. But it's not like grandma's broom closet."

She smiled into her cup, enjoying the ensuing silence. Intelligent usage indeed.


	10. Efforts

Lisa's bicycle was chained to the lamppost outside 221B and the sight of it nearly made Thea drop her shopping bag. They were cycling to the Heath together,

she'd said she'd pick Thea up, but she was early. Oh. God.

Thea raced up the stairs in a panic and burst into the living room.

"Oh, hello darling."

She stopped dead and stared at her father as though he'd grown antlers.

"What?"

"Hey, Thea," Lisa waved from the sofa. "Where've you been?"

"Getting some supplies…have you been here long?"

"Ten minutes…fifteen maybe. Must have just missed you."

Fifteen minutes. Dear lord.

"Sorry," Thea groaned. "Really, I-"

Lisa shrugged happily. In fact, she didn't seem disturbed at all.

"So you girls are off see some bands, I hear," Sherlock said in a voice Thea did not entirely recognise.

"Yea…" she said slowly. "Uhm…"

"Don't look so caught out," he smiled. _Smiled_. "Lisa's filled me in on 'all-ages' gigs and it sounds perfectly reasonable."

"Aha…" Thea waited for something, anything snarky. "What else have you been talking about?"

"Work."

Oh dear sweet merciful Christ, Thea blanched.

"You could have told us your dad has a doctor of chemistry," Lisa said, shaking her head. "I've been picking his brains for the half-term project."

"Yes, we've had a good old chat."

" _Chat_?" Thea felt as if she was standing on a very old trampoline.

"Anyway, you girls should get a move on if you want to catch the – what were they, Lisa?"

" _The Flesheaters_ , Mr Holmes." Something in Lisa's tone suggested she'd told him the name a number of times already.

"Sounds charming," said Sherlock. "Home no later than eight though and make sure someone goes with you."

"Don't worry, Mr Holmes, I'll take her right to the front door," Lisa chirped. "Thanks for the tea."

"Lovely to meet you," he said. "Have fun, sweetheart."

Thea followed Lisa downstairs and outside.

"You're dad's nice," Lisa said, bending to unlock her bike.

"Yeeeees," Thea slapped her forehead. "Bugger, I forgot my lights, hang on!"

She sprinted back upstairs.

"What was _that_?" she shouted.

Sherlock looked up from a stack of files.

"I've been led to believe that being myself might be detrimental to your social standing," he said flatly.

"Did John tell you this?"

"Amongst other reliable sources, yes." There was a sudden flicker of confusion in her father's eyes. "Did I do it wrong?"

"No." Giving in to a foreign impulse, Thea walked to his chair, bend down and kissed the top of his head.

"Did I convince her?"

"I think so, yea."

"Imbecile…" he muttered. "Anyway, enjoy your evening of noise pollution and try not to smoke your first cigarette?"

"Joints only," Thea said, already halfway out of the room.

"Good girl!"


	11. Open House

The frantic ringing of the doorbell brought John jogging downstairs ready for battle stations.

"Oh, uhm, hi," the frazzled teenage girl on the door step looked at him in confusion. "Is Mr Holmes in at all?"

"No, he's gone out…what-"

"It's just…we…so…Thea's not feeling so great-"

"Thea?" John couldn't see her anywhere. "Where is she?"

"In the cab," Lisa said sheepishly.

"What happened?"

"I don't actually know, exactly," Lisa followed him as he made for the taxi waiting on the curb. "Some kind of migraine, maybe? It was kind of freaking us out…"

On the back seat of the car, pale as a ghost, eyes closed and a film of sweat covering her face, sat Thea. She absolutely reeked of beer.

"What on earth?" John climbed in and attempted the extract the child from the car.

"I don't know what set it off," Lisa said pleadingly.

"Thea?" John asked, holding her upright because her legs didn't seem to be working properly.

She winced at the sound of her name.

"Let's get you inside, shall we? Thank you for bringing her…"

"Lisa."

"Lisa. Alright. Thank you. Well done."

"Uhm, sorry…" Lisa was standing awkwardly by the taxi. "I just kind of…don't have any money for the cab."

()

John paid the taxi driver to take Lisa back to the Heath and more or less carried Thea up the stairs. When he put her down on the sofa and attempted to pull

up her eyelids, she batted at his hands feebly and ineffectually.

"Feeling sick?" he asked.

"Head hurts," she whispered, curling in on herself.

"I'll get you some water, okay?"

Thea didn't respond but rolled herself into a tighter ball.

"Can you try and sit up for me?" John set the water on the floor and helped Thea get into a slumped but upright position. "Drink that."

She obeyed, her eyes still closed.

"Now, I want you to breathe very deeply. In-" he demonstrated, "and out. In – out."

After a few minutes of breathing, some colour returned to Thea's face. She opened her eyes a fraction, frowning at the late afternoon sun streaming through

the window.

"Bollocks," she whispered.

"Oh good, you're back," John said.

Thea groaned, drew up her knees and rested her forehead on them.

"What happened?"

"Went to a concert," she muttered.

"A concert."

"Mmh."

"And just what did you do there to get you into this state?" John asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," came the muffled reply.

"It doesn't look like nothing. What? Did you try keep up with the older kids? Had your first drink or something?"

"No," she groaned, looking up at him with some difficulty. "Cliché. Boring."

John raised an eyebrow, rather unconvinced.

"I didn't," she insisted. "Someone spilled beer on me."

"Then what?"

Thea stared past him, eyes a little glazed.

"There were so many people," she said almost inaudibly.

"Concerts tend to be that way."

"I couldn't keep the doors closed," she whispered.

"What?"

"The…never mind."

"I'll text your dad, shall I?"

Thea shrugged.

Before John even got the chance to press send, the door slammed shut downstairs and speedy footfalls were announcing Sherlock's return.

"Huh," he said, squatting down next to the sofa and studying Thea's pained expression. "That was short-lived."

"How come you're back so early?" asked John.

"Got a distress call."

"From whom?"

"My brother." Sherlock frowned at his daughter. "Alright?"

"Yea."

"No you're not," he said. "Too many interesting people?"

She nodded, not looking at him or at anything really.

"Bugger."

Sherlock moved her legs out of the way and sat on the sofa, resting his hand on the top of her sneaker. Thea closed her eyes again.

"Did you black out?" her father asked.

"No."

"That's a win."

"Hooray…"she sighed.

"What's happening here?" John asked from the position he'd taken up on his chair.

"Sensory overload," Sherlock said matter of factly. "Too many people, too much audio-visual stimulation, too much information to absorb. If you can't anchor

yourself, you can go a bit haywire. Can't have been too bad though, at least you got yourself home."

Thea groaned and pulled her jumper over her face.

"Her friend brought her, actually," John explained. "Lisa. She seemed quite worried."

"Oh."

"I'm gonna have to move," Thea moaned from inside her woollen fortress. "Or become a hermit."

"Nonsense."

"Not nonsense," she emerged and glared at them. "I can't show my face again, I made a complete arse of myself."

"Surely-"

"A rocking, blubbering arse, like some kind of deranged person." Thea was almost writhing with shame. "They're not going to ask me to come go anywhere

ever again."

"Why would they not?" Sherlock asked.

"Because I've just demonstrated really effectively that I'm not fit to be taken anywhere cool."

John smirked.

"I'm glad my doom amuses you," Thea snapped.

"You're not the first person to get messy at a party, so to speak," John grinned. "And I dare say it'll happen again."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"A little, yes."

"It's not working. And I didn't 'get messy', I disintegrated."

"And fell into a keg, I presume?" Sherlock sniffed.

"Not you as well," Thea rolled her eyes. "Look at me, I'm not drunk. I ran into some guy and knocked his beer out of his hand. All part of the great show I put

on…I may have to kill myself."

"That seems excessive," said her father. "But you should probably shower."

"What's the point?" She disappeared into her jumper again.

"The living room not smelling like a pub, for a start," John said.

Grumbling, Thea peeled herself off the couch and walked a little unsteadily towards the bathroom.

John turned to Sherlock as soon as they heard the shower turn on.

"What does she mean when she says she can't keep the doors closed?"

"That she couldn't keep the compulsion to analyse in and/or keep the input out," Sherlock explained. "We've been teaching her how to detach but it takes a lot

of practice and it certainly doesn't help that she's so infuriatingly interested in people."

"How do you teach detachment?" John furrowed his brow, fairly certain he wouldn't like the answer.

"Mycroft's got a method that's been proven effective," Sherlock said with a slight shudder. "But mainly it's about establishing a small number of anchors to

focus on when the input becomes overwhelming."

"Like counting sheep when you can't fall asleep?"

"Not even remotely." Sherlock shook his head in disappointment. "The problem is once the doors are open, it can be difficult to shut them again."

"That sounds a little scary," John ventured.

"Oh, it's bloody terrifying."

Thea emerged from the bathroom, wearing her father's second best robe.

"Feel better?" John asked.

She hrmpfed.

"Good," Sherlock said brightly. "Get dressed and then we're good to go."

"Where?" she asked darkly.

"If we leave in the next ten minutes," Sherlock checked something on his phone, "we'll catch the end of _Sid's Kids_."

"No." Thea planted her feet and stared at him stonily.

"Sure we will," said her father. "I doubt this kind of event runs on time anyway."

"I'm not-"

"Yes, you are."

"I can't-"

"Of course you can."

"I can't show up, _with you_ , after I've made an idiot of myself. I'll look even more of a moron."

"I doubt that's actually possible."

"No."

"It's not up for discussion," Sherlock said in a rather final tone of voice. "You got spooked and there's absolutely no point in letting this kind of thing solidify into

full blown phobia. Get dressed. I'm calling a cab."

"But-"

"I will carry you, if I must, but you are going."

"You're the worst."

"As are jokes about German sausages." Sherlock clapped his hands. "Chop-chop!"

()

The green was of course even more packed than it had been at the time of Thea's hasty departure. Dusk was falling and the stage lights were changing from

one bright colour to the next, there were glow sticks and fire jugglers and a mosh pit so vast and packed it reminded Thea of a salmon farm.

She didn't know what was worse, the tidal wave of sounds-sights-smells or the fact that her father had both of his hands firmly planted on her shoulders,

steering her mercilessly towards the centre of the crowd.

It took about five minutes for her heart rate to go through the roof. _Sid's Kids_ were launching into _Anarchy in the U.K._ , sweat and beer soaked bodies were all

around her vying for attention, screaming confusing messages, displaying a myriad of intentions, thrusting their clothes, expressions and body language at her;

seasickness slammed through her, her brain was reeling and, for lack of any better ideas, she started to struggle against Sherlock's grip.

He tightened his hold on her.

"This is marvellous." His mouth was close to her ear.

"I'm going to be sick," she shouted over the music.

"You will not," he said firmly.

"I-"

"Anchors," he told her.

Thea thought her legs might give out. She tried to find something, anything to focus on, but it was all chaos. She clenched her fists and pressed them to her

eyes until she saw stars.

"Stop that. Open your eyes."

"It's too much!"

"You're making it worse. Open your eyes."

And she'd thought the projector room was bad…Thea opened her eyes and was almost knocked of balance by the explosion of visuals. Lonely-bored-drunk-

sad-hyper-randy-jilted-happy-angry people, people, people in the midst of teenage rebellion, on the verge of stopping coming to gigs like this, off for the

weekend from working in dull adult jobs, budding musicians jealous of those on stage….booming bass ripping through it all…two-and-three-and-four-

and-one-and…

Thea shook her head to clear it as much as possible and zeroed in on the bass – three-and-four-and-one-and-two – suddenly the mayhem around her shifted

into a haphazard kind of order. There were still entirely too many people to even begin to process, but they were all more or less enslaved by the bass. They

weren't just moving, they were moving _in time_.

"Which is it?" Sherlock asked, his grip loosening as she relaxed slightly.

"The beat," she said breathlessly.

"Very nice." He let go of her shoulders entirely. "How long to the end of the song?"

"A minute, maybe," she said, staring straight ahead at the furiously banging heads.

"Then what?"

Beating her fists against her thighs in time, Thea let her eyes sweep the crowd. She locked onto a young man and woman, jumping up and down, their hands

entwined.

"These two!"

"Why?

"They'll kiss, they'll slow down."

Even though she didn't turn to look at him, Thea knew Sherlock was rolling his eyes.

"Elaborate," he prompted.

"They're friends, really," said Thea as the madness around the jumping couple slowed almost to a stop and grew muted. "They've known each other for years,

since the first year of secondary school, and they're perfectly comfortable with each other – normally. But now secondary school is over and it's the summer

before they go off to their respective colleges, so an era is coming to an end…and it feels like they should seal the deal before they don't see each other every

day anymore."

"What courses are they starting?" Sherlock's voice drifted from far away.

"Who cares?"

"Well, everything you have cared to deduce is of no consequence whatsoever and insufferably dull."

"It's true though, isn't it?" Thea watched as the two turned towards each other, engaged in a hug so tight as if they wanted to crawl into one another, and

started jumping again as the final chorus hammered over them.

"Yes," conceded Sherlock as the crowd erupted in cheers and the friends became a little more than friends. "Next!"

"Bass again," Thea said firmly. "Buys me about two and a half minutes to find an anchor for the applause."

"Good. I'm going to get a pint. I'll be back in approximately five minutes."

"Okay." Thea attached herself to the bass and was ready to jump her focus to an incredibly drunk girl attempting to lace up her knee-high boot that had come

undone during a vigorous moshing session. Then it was back to the beat.

She was preparing to shift her attentions to two adolescent boys about to have a semi-serious punch-up, when a tap on the shoulder took her out of her

tunnel vision.

"Look what I found on my way to the bar," Sherlock shouted. In his wake followed a beaming Lisa and a slightly-worse for wear Marcus.

"Oh, you look not dead at all," Lisa yelled and hugged her around the shoulders.

"Hope you learned a lesson about leaving the house without your Triptan," Sherlock said loudly, giving Thea a pointed look.

"Migraines, man," Marcus said wearily. "They put my mum out of action for days. Feeling okay now?"

"Much better," Thea smiled. "Sorry about freaking you out, really. And thank you so much for taking me home."

"Can't leave the mascot to cark it on her first outing," Lisa grinned.

"Mascot?" Sherlock made a face but caught himself.

"She's our little mascot," Marcus said, ruffling Thea's hair. "Without a mascot, we'd just be the same as all the other arseholes – sorry, Mister Holmes."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," said Sherlock. "Now, Alethea, this is entirely too much electric guitars for me. Are you sure you're going to be alright?"

"I think so," she said.

"Be certain," her father locked eyes with her. "Don't make me regret letting you pester me into being allowed to come back."

"I'm sure."

"Very well then," Sherlock said sounding suitably weary. "Back at eight. Not eight-thirty, not eight-fifteen. Eight."

"Nine?" Thea asked hopefully.

He shook his head.

"Don't push it."

Thea sighed dramatically, using her roll of the eyes to relocate her next anchor. Weird glasses guy about to fall over his own backpack.

"No need to overdo it," Sherlock said almost gently. "There'll be many more days out for you."

Thea bit back on a smile.

"Fair enough," she said.


	12. The Host

Having friends was new territory for Thea. Even though she was going round to Marcus' regularly now, at least once a week for practise, and had been to

Lisa's house quite a few times now, the visits still bore a distinct air of going to a museum or travelling to another country.

For example, the kitchens at her friends' places were just that, kitchens. There was no lab equipment on the tables and definitely no body parts in the fridge.

She pointed this out to Marcus one Friday afternoon as they got ready to shred in the shed.

"Chicken wings are technically body parts," Marcus corrected her, removing a large container of barbequed leftovers. He stopped and looked at Thea curiously.

"Hang on…do you mean actual human-"

"They're for my father's work," Thea said quickly. "Measuring decay and coagulation and stuff. It's pretty boring."

"What sort of body parts?" Marcus asked. "What's the biggest one you ever found in your fridge?"

"Oh, it's usually just hands and feet or single fingers," Thea lied.

"That's cool."

It was the strangest thing. Thea could not quite understand why Lisa and Marcus had decided to fold her into their little twosome, but she figured it would be a

bad idea to ask them. She didn't want to draw attention to the fact that she was almost a full five years younger than them or her constant bafflement at the

minutiae of their lives. They were so interesting she could barely stand it.

Both Lisa and Marcus' houses sported, for instance, an incredible amount of photographs.

"Why do you have pictures of these babies?"

Thea had studied the frames snapshots every time she came to visit but she'd never quite had the nerve to ask.

"That's me," Lisa said.

"It doesn't look like you at all."

"That's because I'm a baby, Thea," Lisa said slowly. "Babies tend to look quite similar."

"Is that you as well?" Thea pointed at a picture of a girl on a beach wearing a wig of seaweed.

"Yes."

"Why are there so many pictures of you around?"

"What?"

"Why-"

"No, Thea," Lisa interrupted. "I mean, what are you not understanding?"

"You're parents know what you look like," Thea said plainly. "You certainly know what you look like. What's the point?"

"To remember things."

"You don't need pictures for that."

"No, you don't _need_ them," Lisa conceded. "But it's just what people do."

"And this?" Thea examined a portrait of a girl in a tree. "Is that you as well?"

"No, that's my sister."

"You have a sister?" Thea asked in genuine surprise. "Is she being kept locked up in a cellar or something?"

"Uhm, no…" Lisa frowned slightly. "She died of leukaemia two years ago."

"Oh." Thea thought about this, studying the face of the dead girl in the photo, who looked a little like Lisa and didn't seem sick at all.

"What, Thea?" Lisa asked a little tiredly, she'd spend enough time with her to know a question – or a series thereof – was imminent.

"Why do you keep pictures of her around?" Thea asked. "Doesn't it make you sad to look at her?"

"It does and it doesn't," Lisa replied.

"That doesn't make sense," Thea pointed out before she could stop herself.

"Duality," Lisa sighed. "Memories are funny that way."

"Huh."

"And dead or not," Lisa's tone had the sing-song quality of something being repeated for the umpteenth time, "she's still part of the family."

"Dead people aren't part of anything," Thea frowned.

Lisa looked at her with an expression Thea did not care for at all.

"I should shut up, shouldn't I?" she ventured cautiously.

"That would be good." Lisa took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders, something she was prone to do when she got annoyed and wanted to keep from

punching someone. Thea had seen this many times, mostly when Marcus started rambling about outlandish conspiracy theories.

"Let's get this fusion thing started," Lisa said finally, slamming her chemistry book on the kitchen table.

"Okay…"

"Don't worry," Lisa gave her a tight smile. "I have to keep you around to help with homework at the very least."

Thea obliged happily, but a strange feeling of…something…lingered for the rest of the afternoon.

()

"Do you have any pictures of the host?"

Thea, Sherlock and John were seated in their respective favourite chairs; John and Thea with boxes of semi-cold Chinese, Sherlock with a stack of twenty-

year-old newspapers.

"No," he answered without looking up.

"Huh." Thea turned her attention back to dinner, wondering at the gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach.

"What's the host?" John asked casually.

"Ancient history," Sherlock answered.

"It's not really ancient," Thea disagreed.

Her father set his paper aside with a sigh of exasperation.

"Things that are no longer of consequence or influence can be categorised as ancient history regardless of timeline. Case point. Last week you mistakenly

ruined a near complete set of specimen by pouring coke into a jar without checking what was in it – but! You went through considerable trouble remedying

your mishap, it ceased to be a problem, we shan't speak of it again – ancient history."

Thea poked at the remains of dubious sweet and sour pork with her chopsticks. It seemed best to drop the subject, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to.

"Does grandma have any?"

"Any what?" Sherlock was back behind a wall of yellowed newsprint.

"Pictures," Thea said impatiently, "of the host."

"Why on earth would she?"

"I don't know…" Thea put her food on the floor, crossed her legs and started picking at a rip in her jeans. "They met, didn't they? She might have taken one."

"I very much doubt that."

"She might have," Thea said indignantly.

"Where is this coming from?" Sherlock asked.

"Nowhere."

"Curious."

"I am, too," said John. "Who are you talking about?"

"The host." Thea rolled her eyes. "Weren't you listening? Does either of you ever actually listen to anything I say?"

"Mind," her father said dangerously, "the attitude."

"Come off it," she snapped.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here," John said suddenly. "And I'm really hoping I've got the wrong end of it…but when you say 'host' are you referring to your

mother?"

Thea opened her mouth but Sherlock was faster.

" _Mother_ would be suggestive of someone who had taken their role further than mere incubation," he said. " _Host_ seems by far the more appropriate term,

seeing as no actual mothering, in the true sense of the word, actually took place."

John stared. Thea had by now extended the rip in her pants so much she could fit her whole hand in.

"You can't be serious," John said finally.

"Terminologies should be applied according to circumstance," Sherlock said simply. "Had she made it to phase two, the title of mother would have been

appropriate, but that was not how the experiment played out."

"The experiment?"

"Project Progeny," Thea explained. "That's me – hi…"

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Sherlock studied John's face with interest.

"I think he might be horrorstruck," Thea said helpfully.

"Why?"

"Because you're a bloody psychopath!" John erupted.

"High functioning sociopath." Thea mouthed the words in perfect unison with her father's correction.

"Bringing a child into the world is neither an experiment nor a project, Sherlock," John shouted.

"Of course it is," Sherlock scoffed. "Any parent who claims the opposite is either delusional or a shameless liar."

"So, your girl-…the…Thea's mother, did she have anything to say about this?"

"That's a ridiculous question."

"Oh, is it?!"

"It was a joint undertaking, John," Sherlock said in the tone reserved for the impossibly thick. "In fact, my role was to be very much that of a passive observer

until phase three."

"How can you talk about it like that?" John looked as though he was on the verge of punching a wall. "Your _daughter_ is sitting right here."

"She's aware of all the facts."

Thea could tell her father was genuinely confused now, which didn't happen very often, and felt moved to step in.

"Phase one, you see," she said calmly, giving John her most reassuring smile, "was incubation, obviously. Phase two was overseeing early development and

observing any affinities that might manifest. Phase three was supposed to be targeted furthering of said affinities."

"Affinities?" John asked weakly.

"Talents, I suppose," Sherlock clarified. "But the idea was to allow them to develop independently, rather than as a response to exposure."

"What was the point?"

"The point? There was no single point," Sherlock frowned. "But amongst other things it might have provided a number of insights to questions regarding nature

and nurture. Genetic predispositions. Correction of genetic downfalls. It could have been quite spectacular."

"Could have been?"

"See, when the host didn't make it into phase two," Thea elaborated, "the project was compromised beyond redemption. Sort of. Because the point was to see

how the specimen, me, would develop without direct influence by the donor."

"Have either of you any idea how twisted this sounds?" John asked, unable to contain his disbelief.

"It's not twisted, it's science."

"You are insane."

For a while they sat in uncomfortable silence, none of them quite sure what to do with their hands or where to look.

"Where on earth did you find a woman deranged enough to go along with this demented scheme?" John asked finally.

"University."

"She was studying to be a geneticist," Thea volunteered.

"Of course she was." John shook his head. "How long were you together?"

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Together?"

"Dating, a couple, you know, together."

"We weren't," Sherlock sounded bemused. "That would have complicated things unnecessarily."

"Naturally," John said darkly. "So what? How?"

"IVF, obviously."

"Obviously," John echoed.

"Don't look so annoyed," Thea said. "Lots of people have IVF babies, even if they are…together. Marcus, for example. His dad has a low sperm count."

John barked an involuntary laugh.

"It's not funny," Thea admonished. "They spent a fortune having him and now Marcus is being crushed by irrational feelings of responsibility to make it worth

their while. It's no wonder he drinks."

"He drinks?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"Recreationally," Thea said quickly. "Anyway, he's already said on numerous occasions that he'll kick me out of the band if I so much as sniff a beer. Drummers

need to be precise."

"How very reassuring."

"What was her name?"

Both Holmes looked at John curiously.

"Whose?" asked Thea.

"Your mother's."

"Agnes," Thea said. "Agnes Tremaine."

"So, you really have no pictures, not one single one, of Agnes?" John asked Sherlock.

"No. What purpose would it serve?"

John threw up his hands.

"I'm going for a walk," he announced. "I may not be back for quite some time and am likely to be completely plastered when I do."

By the time he pulled on his jacket, Sherlock was back at the newspapers.


	13. Person of Interest

In retrospect, it hadn't been the brightest idea but Thea felt she'd run out of options. The internet had yielded very little information about Agnes Tremaine,

certainly no picture evidence, and she had nothing to go on other than a name, the date of death and the name of a university. The obituary she'd found had

been generic and brief, with no mention of either Thea or Sherlock. As it was, Thea didn't even know if Agnes' family had been aware of project progeny, if she

even had a family to begin with. It left, Thea had figured, exactly one avenue of investigation.

Things had gone smoothly for the better part of the mission. She'd successfully duped the school nurse into sending her home courtesy of an imaginary

stomach bug, cycled her way through back streets to her uncle's house and been let in by a sympathetic cleaning lady, who was clearly new and spoke limited

English.

"My dad's at and I'm not supposed to be home alone," Thea had sniffled pathetically. "Can I just lie down upstairs until my uncle gets back?"

"Poor thing, poor thing…"

As soon as the vacuum turned on downstairs, Thea slid from the bed and stealthily made for her uncle's study. Picking the lock of the filing cabinet was not an

issue, Thea had never actually been given a set of keys to any flat she ever lived in, her father had insisted she use a set of bogota rakes instead. Although it

made for weird looks from the neighbours on occasion, it had taught her some handy skills.

The file on her father was impressively thick, including a hefty stack of his lists and incomprehensible notes in her uncle's hand, coded, naturally, in such a

ludicrous fashion Thea didn't even attempt to decipher any of it. There were some pictures of Sherlock, mainly grainy things pulled from street surveillance, and

even a couple of a much younger Thea. Thea sitting on a giant skip bin outside an abandoned building at about four years old. At six, her tear-streaked face

turned up to the CCTV camera, shouting to be picked up. Nothing that would make for display on the sideboard in other words.

Nothing, however, on Agnes Tremaine.

Perhaps she'd warranted her own file.

There's was nothing under A and nothing under T, there was nothing under P (as in project progeny) or under H for host… once her ideas were exhausted with

zero results, Thea started flicking through the files at random. You never knew.

A folder dubiously titled 'Garden of Paradise' had some pictures of a woman, taken through glass by the looks of it. She was pale, with long hair of

indeterminable – the pictures were bluish in tint – and was staring past the camera with a complete lack of interest. There was nothing else, just the pictures.

Thea squinted at them, looking for any kind of resemblance. She thought she saw something familiar, but she wasn't confident it was just wishful thinking.

"And what do you think you're doing?"

Thea dropped the file, spilling pictures over the polished floor, seriously considering jumping through the closed window. Mycroft closed the door behind him,

blocking the only other escape route.

Thea retreated as he advanced, keen to keep the desk between them. Her uncle glanced at the pictures on the floor and the briefest of frowns appeared for

the briefest of moments.

"Pick these up," he said evenly, "and put them where you found them."

This, unfortunately, meant abandoning the buffer zone of the desk. Disobeying, however, seemed excessively unwise. Very slowly, Thea moved towards

Mycroft, bent down and retrieved the images of the staring lady, slipped them into their folder and placed it back into the drawer.

"Close it."

She did but was reluctant to turn around when it was done. The array of possible outcomes of this cock-up was so immense she had no idea what to expect;

still, it was unlikely to be pleasant. Behind her, her uncle cleared his throat. Thea turned slow motion.

Mycroft was very still, looking down on her with an unreadable expression.

"I'm waiting."

Thea was trying her best not to squirm under his gaze.

"I was…uhm…looking for…something," she said cautiously.

Her uncle's smile made her blood run cold. He looked as though he might eat her.

"Do better."

"I…" Thea ran through a set of decoy explanations, determined that he was bound to see through all of them and decided to settle for the truth. It wouldn't do

to aggravate him any further. "I was looking…I thought you might have some pictures of the ho-…my mo-…of Agnes Tremaine."

Mycroft was toying with his umbrella, his eyes still on her with unnerving focus.

"Because…" Thea went on, her face burning with all kinds of shame and terror, "I…I just wanted to see?"

He gave her nothing.

"Was that her?" Thea asked timidly, when the silence became too much for her to stand.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"The 'Garden of Paradise'-lady," Thea whispered.

Her uncle shook his head slightly.

"I didn't really think so," she admitted.

Mycroft walked leisurely to the other side of the desk and settled into his chair, his fingertips resting lightly against each other. As he gave no indication that he

wanted her to sit as well, Thea remained standing.

"Do you know what I do?" her uncle asked after a felt eternity.

"Not exactly," said Thea.

"Yet even you would have grasped by now that what I do involves matters not accessible to the general public."

"Yes." She swallowed.

"Allow me to show you something." Mycroft stood, opened the filing cabinet, extracted two slender folders and pushed one across the desk towards Thea, who

made no move to touch it.

"You may." Mycroft returned to his chair.

Thea opened the file and flinched. The photos inside showed someone so badly beaten it was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman, you couldn't

even tell the original colour of their skin.

"Take your time," Mycroft said softly. "Look at all of them. Closely."

Hideous didn't even begin to cover it. Thea could literally feel the colour draining from her face.

"This," her uncle's voice cut through the fog of violent imagery, "is the length unsavoury elements will go to in order to know some of the more trivial things

that I know. Now, I know you are only a child…" he lay the second folder in front of her, "…so let me show you what this sort of element is willing to do to

 _children_."

Thea shook her head almost imperceptibly. Her uncle's face hardened.

"You can look at them now at your leisure," he said, "or I will go through the considerable trouble to have them projected downstairs, where you will peruse

them until I am certain that you have understood."

With shaking hands Thea opened the folder. The first image was enough to make her retch, once she realised what exactly she was looking at. Under Mycroft's

unwavering glare, she turned picture after picture until she reached the end.

"Anything," Mycroft said calmly, "that you may find in my archives and choose to examine without my express permission has the potential to make you what is

benignly termed a person of interest. If you were to become such a person, even if you did not actually retain any sensitive information, it would automatically

put you at considerable risk of _this_."

Thea thought she might either be sick or cry or do both at once.

"No need for the big puppy dog eyes." Her uncle chuckled and the room seemed to grow colder. "You know perfectly well that I would do whatever it took in

order to spare you _this_ ," he inclined his head towards the folder Thea was still clutching in shaky hands.

"You may put that down now, if you like."

She threw the file from her as though it might explode.

"Naturally, if you were to become a person of interest," Mycroft continued, "it would be difficult to impossible to protect you while you remained here and as

your safety would be paramount, I would have to take whatever measures were required to guarantee it. Do you know how protective custody works?"

Thea shook her head.

"Going underground," Mycroft mused. "We have some truly spectacular subterranean safehouses, you would be amazed. Soundproof, so deep in the ground

you cannot even find them with heat sensors. Skeleton staff, changed regularly to avoid excessive familiarity and extremely limited contact even with these few

handpicked operatives, to minimise risk of infiltration."

He paused, giving Thea an opportunity to process.

"Of course once you are under this kind of protection it becomes impossible to maintain any previous connections." Her uncle leaned back and regarded her,

watching the words impact like tiny missiles.

"Am I making myself clear?" he asked finally.

"Yes," Thea rasped.

"Very well, then you may go." Mycroft opened his laptop and diverted his attentions.

Thea backed towards the door on jelly legs and managed to open it despite her sweaty hands.

"Leave it open," her uncle instructed, not looking up from his screen. "And no running on the stairs."

Forcing herself to maintain a normal walking pace, Thea navigated the hallway, descended the staircase with one hand white knuckled on the banister to

keep her speed down, and opened the front door to an inappropriately sunny afternoon. The second she'd pulled the door closed behind her she broke into a

sprint.


	14. Basement

Thea was wearing headphones blasting Vivaldi and protective gloves. The giant cardboard box, wrapped in multiple layers of tape, was vibrating in her hands.

She could still hear muffled shrieks through the music, but they were pretty faint. The stairs were no longer carpeted and the deeper down she went, the more

the lights crackled above her. At the very bottom of the stairs she stopped in front of the door. It was made of steel, locked with one of those twisty wheels

she associated with submarines and it was covered in warning signs. High voltage lightning, rabidly barking dogs, skull and crossbones indicating poison, police

tape, plaques reading _Danger_ , _Keep Out_ , _Authorised Access Only_. She had to set the box down to turn the wheel and push the door open by putting all her

weight into it.

In front of her the black of the basement loomed large. Thea found the string dangling near the door and pulled. A single light bulb zinged into action on the

water damaged ceiling. Two of the walls were lined with metal shelves containing a pretty small number of strongboxes in various sizes. Thea picked up the

box, which seemed to have grown heavier, and struggled towards the nearest shelf. Vivaldi was starting to slow, a sign that the batteries of her very old

fashioned Walkman were starting to give up. The screaming from the box grew louder.

Thea jammed the box onto the shelf, trying to ignore the fact that it was fairly jumping up and down from all the commotion inside. The music was now so slow

the tune became unrecognisable. She started to hum as she carefully backed towards the door. A movement in the far corner of the room caught her eye and

she froze.

A lump concealed under a coverless doona was rising and turning. Thea willed herself to look away, but was unable to. The box on the shelf was going crazy

with movement, emanating howls and pleas now, the music stopped and the shape in the corner got to unsteady feet with a groan.

"Come to see me?" it asked hoarsely.

Behind her, a tell-tale creak announced that the basement door was beginning to close. Thea spun around and ran at the door, vaguely aware of the

cardboard box toppling from the shelf behind her. She was clawing at the door, trying to pry it back open wide enough to slip through the crack.

"What is _that_?" it drawled behind her, accompanied by dragging footsteps. "Oh, that looks just disgraceful."

The door clicked shut and Thea turned around just in time to see the dishevelled figure taking hold of the tape that was just barely keeping the box together

now.

"Don't!" she yelled.

Her father turned to her, his eyes wide and luminous, a blissful smile playing on his unshaven face.

"Just one little look," he said playfully and tore the box wide open.

Thea screamed, the contents of the box staggered from their prison and the lights went out.

()

John and Sherlock returned home late, or early, depending on perspective, only to be greeted by a supremely irritated Mrs Hudson, wrapped tightly in her robe,

circles darkening under her eyes.

"Fancied coming home, did you?" she snapped.

"What?" John leaned forward, it was difficult to hear her over the deafening classical music cascading down the stairs.

"Get her to turn this racket down!" Mrs Hudson shouted. "It's been going for hours!"

"Why didn't you?" Sherlock shouted back.

"Can't get the door open – I think she's left the key in when she locked it from inside!"

"Why would she lock the door?" John asked loudly.

"How on earth should I know why that child does anything?!"

The lock was picked in seconds and John crossed the room swiftly to turn off the stereo hammering painful decibels through the room.

"Oh, for God's sake." John turned to see Sherlock standing over the tightly curled up form of Thea, on the floor in between the chairs.

"Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock shouted.

"Yes, dear?" floated a reply from downstairs.

"How long was the music on?"

"Since about four this afternoon," Mrs Hudson called back. "Same song on repeat, driving me out of my mind."

Sherlock checked the time on his phone. 2 am, nearly. Not good at all. John was squatting next to Thea now, waving his hand in front of her wide open eyes.

"Thea?" he called, slapping her lightly on the cheek. "Oi! Thea!"

"That's not going to work," Sherlock said drily.

"Has this happened before?" John asked, snapping his fingers millimetres from Thea's face, shaking her gently with his other hand.

"We've got to get her in the shower," Sherlock announced.

"She's clearly in some sort of shock-"

"Sooner rather than later," Sherlock cut him off, lifting his curled up daughter from the floor. "Open the door for me and turn on the lights."

In the bathroom, Sherlock lowered Thea into the bathtub, forced her tightly wrapped arms apart and gripped her wrists tightly. Thea gave no signs of

registering any of this.

"Turn it on."

"Are you sure about this?" John asked.

"Of course I'm bloody sure," Sherlock snapped and John turned to cold tap to full blast, drenching both father and daughter instantly.

()

Thea could feel small hands, slick with blood and awkward with broken fingers, petting her hair. There was soft weeping now rather than screaming. On the

other side of the room, she knew without looking, a bunch of small, shattered bodies had joined her father on the mattress. She knew this because she could

hear him singing to them.

 _Hansel und Gretel verliefen sich im Wald…es war so dunkel und auch so bitterkalt_ …

Then there was the sound of another couple of them crawling around the room in the dark, calling at regular intervals for their mothers.

Panic had long ago given way to a defeatist terror, making her feel as though she was made of frantically running ants, any movement might make them

disperse, toppling her into formlessness. So she stayed still. Hoping they might forget about her. Knowing they would not.

One of them was trying to get onto her lap, forcing her arms apart. She tensed but it was stronger than her. It was nestling against her, cooing, smelling burnt.

Thea gagged.

"Oh, don't be a spoilsport," her father's voice drifted from the corner. "This is great fun, isn't it? You always go on about having other children to play with…"

His voice trailed off as a whooshing sound swept through the basement.

"Oh bother," he moaned.

The ceiling ripped open and water came rushing in. The children were shrieking in terror, Thea was gasping for air.

()

"Only water!" Sherlock shouted at his thrashing daughter, holding her firmly under the shower. "Only water!"

Thea screamed like a banshee.

"Only water!"

She wrenched one arm free and punched him in the face, panting, looking around frantically, clawing at the hand still clasped on her wrist.

"There you go," Sherlock said, "there you go. See? Only a little water."

"Get off!" Thea howled.

"In a minute." He got hold of her free arm and pushed it down on the rim of the bathtub. She stared at it in wonder.

"Oh," she sighed and proceeded to throw up acid bile over the side of the tub.

"Jesus," John muttered. "I'll make some tea, shall I?"

Sherlock nodded, not taking his eyes of Thea, who had stopped vomiting but started to shiver.

"There you go," he repeated. "That's better."

"Gross," Thea moaned, resting her forehead on her knees.

Her father released her arms and passed her a towel.

"Get yourself cleaned up," he said.

Thea blinked up at him, noticing a whole lot of pissed off emerging as he ascertained she was, for lack of a better word, alright.

"In your own time," he said tightly. "But we'll have to have a chat about this, so don't be too long."

With that he vacated the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

()

Thea emerged in an oversized woollen jumper she'd found in the laundry basket. There were teacups on the table.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

She shrugged and climbed onto a chair awkwardly, folding her legs under her and pulling the jumper over them. She studied her hands intently.

"What have I told you about the basement?" Sherlock asked finally.

I know…" Thea wrapped her hands into the sleeves.

"Apparently not," he snapped.

"No, I do."

"So, what did I tell you, no, what have I repeatedly told you like a broken record, over and over, again and again and _again_ about the basement?"

"Not to go there unsupervised and not without leaving a trail," Thea said almost soundlessly.

"Yet here we are."

"I know."

"What basement?" John asked, looking from one Holmes to the other.

"The basement," Sherlock said abruptly. "Her basement. The basement in her memory palace-"

"Castle," Thea corrected him without meaning to.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," he hissed. "The basement of her memory _castle._ The one she's just spend the last ten hours in. Stuck."

"Ten _hours_?" Thea asked. "Where were you?"

"That's rather irrelevant, don't you think?"

She shrunk deeper into the seat, almost sliding under the table.

"I did leave the music on," she muttered indignantly.

"A fat lot of good that seems to have done!"

"Can you not yell at me?" she asked the table top.

"You could make it easier by refraining from moronic excursions to places you are not equipped to deal with," Sherlock yelled. "Now stop stalling and tell me

what happened."

"The box opened," Thea whispered. "And the door closed. I didn't get out in time."

"What was in the box?" Her father was no longer shouting, but he didn't sound particularly friendly either.

"Just some pictures."

"Even you, in your apparently boundless idiocy, would not do the one thing – the only thing – you are expressly forbidden to do, in order to get rid of _just some_

 _pictures_. Pictures of what?"

"Pretty bad pictures," Thea murmured.

"And where did you get them?"

She bit her lip, looking away.

"Alethea, I am warning you-"

"It would have been fine!" she suddenly shouted, glaring at him furiously. "It would have been just fine, I was almost out and then _you_ had to open the box –

you let them out!"

"Me?" He stared at her in utter disbelief. "How – what? Why am I in your basement? What of me could possibly be…oh."

Sherlock sat down heavily. He reached for a cup and pulled it closer.

"Yes – oh," Thea mimicked and crossed her arms over her chest. "That bit. And he – _you_ – just couldn't leave well enough alone as bloody usual."

"Did you put me there on your own?" he asked, running his fingers along the rim of the teacup.

"No," Thea said wearily, her anger evaporating as quickly as it had flared up. "Uncle Mycroft took me."

"When?"

"About four years ago."

"I see."

There was something in his tone that caught Thea off guard and made her feel terrible.

"I'm sorry," she said helplessly.

"Not at all." Sherlock shook his head, abandoned the teacup and looked at her soberly. "Back to current affairs. Pictures."

Thea let her head drop to the table.

"I really, really, really can't tell you," she pleaded. "There's nothing you can do anyways."

John watched Sherlock wrestle with a fresh wave of annoyance, swallow it down and attempt a conciliatory tone.

"Of course I can," he said as calmly as humanly possible. "We go back together and I'll help you put them away. But you know I can't do that if I don't know

what they are."

Thea groaned.

"I don't have a clue what you two are actually talking about," John said, regarding his own cup of tea. "But that sounds like a really reasonable offer to me,

Thea."

Sherlock looked at him in surprise, as though he'd forgotten he was even there. Thea slowly lifted her head and looked at both of them with red-rimmed eyes.

"Can you guarantee that they won't come back out?" she asked.

"I can," her father said without hesitation. "We'll make them a safe if necessary, but they will not come out. Ever. Unless you take them out on purpose."

Thea took a deep breath, blew in her tea, sipped and told them everything.


	15. Pictures

Mycroft thought of the sea as he woke due to a peculiar rocking motion that, even more curious, carried from sleep into wakefulness. He opened his eyes and a

gasp escaped him before he could stop it. Over him, feet planted on either side of his pillow, swaying slightly and therefore moving the bed, stood Sherlock.

"Morning, brother mine," he said pleasantly.

"Get your shoes off my bed," Mycroft groaned, contemplating the best way to sit up without finding himself in an unbecoming position.

In response the rocking increased.

"I do sleep with a gun under my pillow," Mycroft pointed out.

"I know." Sherlock pulled said pistol from his coat pocket and twirled it around his index finger.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes toward the clock on the bedside table. "It's five in the morning. What?"

Sherlock bounced off the bed, juggling the gun from one hand to the other.

"Where to begin?" He ran his hand along the top of the dresser. "So much to talk about, dear brother – where to start?"

Mycroft got folded back the covers and got out of bed, eyeing his brother warily.

"I know!" Sherlock exclaimed. "How about my child? Remember her? Yey-high, lots of hair…"

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I see," he said primly. "And did Alethea provide you with the applicable context?"

"Indeed she did." Sherlock stepped back onto the bed, towering over Mycroft from the higher ground.

"Then surely even someone with your stunted grasp on pedagogy will understand that a lesson needed to be taught." Mycroft met his younger brother's gaze

unflinchingly. "Off the bed. Now."

"And what was your lesson meant to achieve?" Sherlock remained where he was.

"To deter her from further engagement with matters that are none of her business," Mycroft replied. "I dare say it was successful."

Sherlock stepped off the bed and was now directly in front of his brother, smiling dangerously.

"I admit it was harsh," Mycroft conceded, holding his position.

"Harsh," echoed Sherlock.

"Yes, harsh. But not unjustified."

"Would you like to know how she is doing, perhaps?" Sherlock asked with considerable menace.

"Disturbed, I imagine." Mycroft gave a sad little smile.

"She tried to store your _lesson_ in the basement."

For a moment the words hung in the air.

"She couldn't possibly be that stupid," Mycroft said finally.

"Of course she could, you scared her out of her wits," said Sherlock.

"So what, you're going to shoot me with my own gun to avenge her? Please." Mycroft studied his brother. "What else?"

As much as it drove him to distraction, Sherlock had to admit his brother knew him well.

"She said something…odd, about her cargo. Something very odd indeed."

()

The bedroom was small but very, very nice. It was a little like something out of a magazine, with French doors – bolted with padlocks of solid titanium - and

trims along the edge where the wall met the ceiling – Thea didn't know what they were called but she knew they were a thing. The bed stood dead centre in

the middle of the room. It had a metal frame and a memory foam mattress and blankets covered in sheets made of bamboo, which was also a thing,

supposedly. The curtains had the periodic table printed on them and exquisitely bound volumes of classic children's books were stacked on the window sill,

because – bed aside – the room was unfurnished.

Thea lay on the bed, looking up at the white ceiling, breathing, relaxed almost to the point of melting. Outside a gentle breeze moved the branches of a

blossoming cherry tree and a cloud of white petals drifted past the window. Were cherry blossoms actually white? No point in being facetious, Thea figured,

best to just enjoy the show.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, feet sinking into a thick, bright yellow carpet, and walked across to the window tingling with pleasure. She picked

up a copy of _Winnie The Poo_ – surely this was the pinnacle of non-threatening? – and smelled the leather cover. Lovely. Just the thing to take back to bed with

her.

She turned and stopped cold. There was a rust coloured smudge on the carpet, right by the bed. Thea looked down at her feet. They were clean. Oh. Taking a

deep breath she got on her hands and knees and peered underneath the bed. There was definitely something writhing. She bit down on her back teeth hard

and a stinging sensation flooded her mouth, making her clench her fists. Her left hand exploded with sharp pain and before she had time to look down on it,

she was sitting bolt upright on the living room sofa, spitting tabasco sauce on the floor.

"There you are," John, who had pulled his chair up alongside the sofa, handed her a glass of water. Thea swigged, rinsed and spat into the plastic bucket next

to her repeatedly. She held out her left had to him.

"Can you help me get that off?" she asked.

"'Course." John carefully peeled back the glove, the inside of which was brimming with tiny but sharp ends of copper wire. Thea's hand was covered in miniscule

pin pricks, some of them deep enough to draw droplets of blood.

"How long did I sleep?" Thea asked as she worked the husk of her tabasco capsule stuck in her back teeth free with her tongue and spat it out. "So gross."

"About five hours actually," John stretched and leaned back in his chair.

"That's not bad."

"Feel better then?"

"Yea." She yawned and sat up completely. "Did you sit up with me the whole time?"

"Just for the couple of hours or so," said John. "Your dad had to pop out for a bit."

"For a spot of fratricide?"

"Presumably, yes."

"Bollocks," Thea rubbed her face.

"Don't worry," John said lightly. "I'm sure he'll evade the police long enough to do…whatever you two have to do…in your castle."

"I hope so," she said glumly. "I'm not sleeping like this for another night. Did I look ridiculous waking up?"

"A bit."

Thea humphed and got up. She glanced out of the window.

"No…"

"What?" John joined her by the window in time to see a dark suited man get out of a sleek black car. "Oh."

"This is so stupid," Thea muttered, looking for her shoes and something to tie up her hair with.

"You're in pyjamas," John pointed out.

"Well, I'm not dressing up to get yelled at by both of them." Thea took her jacket off the back of the sofa and stomped down the stairs to meet her ride.

()

Her uncle gave her a grace period of point-one of a second when she walked into the sitting room.

"Have you completely taken leave of your senses?"

Thea eased past him and took up defensive positions on the far end of the sofa. Her father, who was standing by the window, his back to the room, did not

turn around or acknowledge her arrival in any way.

"What possessed you?"

"You already know, you know bloody everything," Thea groaned.

"Yet you still manage to surprise me."

Something in his tone threw her. He was certainly angry, but there were traces of another thing Thea couldn't quite place. So she waited. Mycroft was pinching

the bridge of his nose as if to ward of a serious headache. Sherlock was still staring out of the window. Thea waited. And waited. And waited. Until she caved

under the weight of the silence.

"Can you just tell me off and be done with it?"

"All in good time." Mycroft took the seat opposite her and leaned forward. "There's something I need you to clarify first."

"What?" Thea asked cautiously.

"When your containment device came undone," her uncle said slowly. "What exactly happened next?"

"They got out." Thea resisted the urge to chew her nails only by sitting on her hands.

"Be specific."

"I am being specific. They came out of the box."

"What did?"

" _Them._ " Thea frowned. "What are you not understanding?"

"I showed you photographs," Mycroft looked at her intently. "Still images. Yet your choice of words suggests that the content of your 'box' was something

entirely different."

"No, it wasn't," Thea insisted.

"So what you are meaning to say is that your projections of the photographs fell out?" Her uncle sounded almost hopeful.

"No," Thea groaned, frustrated. "They came out of the box, them…"

"Who?" Mycroft asked warily.

"The children," she said, burying her face in a sofa cushion. "From the pictures."

"But they were not in the pictures anymore?"

"Well, no, obviously," her reply was muffled.

"They were moving, three dimensional, tactile…" Mycroft hesitated, "…vocal?"

Thea nodded into the pillow.

"See," she heard her father speak up by the window, "I told you."

"How, Alethea?" Even without looking at him she could tell her uncle had a pained expression.

"What do you mean - how?" She sat up and glared at him. "You showed them to me."

"How did you turn perfectly ordinary photographs into living things?"

"They are living things," she said completely bewildered. "Or they were. They might still be. Maybe…some of them. What?"

"When your dear uncle presented you with his deterrent, as he so quaintly terms it, he failed to factor in your overactive imagination," Sherlock said, finally

deigning to face them.

"Because this is preposterous," said Mycroft, sounding rather defensive.

"We're talking about a person who is convinced that the existence of the narwhal offers conclusive proof that unicorns are real," Sherlock said drily.

Mycroft looked at his niece as though she had just grown a second head.

"Think about it," she snapped. "It's a simple matter of mutation. If one mammal can grow a completely useless horn, why can't another?"

"It's a tusk."

"It looks like a horn." Thea crossed her arms over her chest. "And I don't see what it has to do with this, anyway."

"Stop," Mycroft said, his voice tense. "So, you really mean to tell me that you when you managed to get yourself stuck in your basement, the children from the

pictures were physically present?"

"Yes," she shouted. "I keep telling you. What-"

"But that's horrendous!"

"Well," Thea said, taken aback by his genuine horror, "yes."

"Bravo, brother mine," Sherlock clapped his hands lazily. "Got it in the end."

"What's not to get?" Thea looked from one to the other. "Why is he surprised? You're never surprised – does this _not_ happen with you?"

"Of course it bloody doesn't, it's ridiculous," her uncle was staring at her with an odd mix of distaste and awe. "It has nothing to do with facts-"

"How does it not?" Thea interrupted. "How are the people in pictures not facts?"

"They are abstracts," Mycroft seemed ready to pull his hair out. "You can't have a life action memory of something you have only seen in pictures. It's

completely irrational. Not to mention inaccurate."

"Why?"

"Because it's not a memory of the thing but of your emotional interpretation of the thing. It's a daydream, perfectly useless."

"You said visualisation-" Thea started.

"What you are describing is not a visualisation," Sherlock looked at her sternly, "it's a hallucination."

"You do the same thing!" she accused.

"I certainly don't," her father scoffed.

"You totally do – what…what about the dog, huh?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The _dog_ ," Thea couldn't for the life of her remember its name. "Your dog that got put down, that's running around in your memory palace, it has its own

hallway, you told me."

"That's not the same," said Sherlock.

"So you have a dead dog come back to life and _I_ am hallucinating?" Thea stared at him furiously.

"It's not the same," Mycroft agreed. Thea was momentarily stunned. She could not remember another time when her father and her uncle had agreed on

anything.

"Why?"

"Because I can remember the dog, spawn," Sherlock said slowly. "I knew it when it was alive, I knew how it moved and smelled and the sound of its bark. You

don't know those children, so what you have created is not a memory but an impression. Fantasy inspired by reality is still fantasy."

Thea leaned back on the couch and thought about this long enough for a tray with tea to materialise before she spoke again.

"Where did I go wrong?"

"You got frightened-" her uncle started.

"You wanted me to get frightened, don't blame-"

"Let him finish."

She stared at Sherlock in disbelief.

"I know," he sighed. "Exception to the rule, alright?"

"Too kind," Mycroft said sourly. "The point is you misdirected your fear."

She shook her head slightly but did not interrupt.

"The children in the pictures couldn't possibly hurt you," Mycroft continued. "It's the people who hurt _them_ that you should be frightened off. The pictures are

just that – pictures."

"Is this about the explicit and the implicit again?" Thea asked, recalling a number of lengthy lectures she'd half-napped through over the years.

"Quite so."

She groaned and pressed her hands against her eyes.

"And then you did the same thing again," Sherlock observed.

"What?" Thea looked at him sharply. "When?"

"When I told you to go sleep in a secure room," he pointed to her left hand, which was still speckled with faded pin pricks, "you didn't do what I asked. There

would have been no need to set off the alarms otherwise."

"I did exactly what you told me," Thea said incredulous. "I went to a secure room. They only got in after hours and hours-"

"If something can get into a room, that room is not secure." Sherlock started to pace. "Which room is it? What's in it?"

"Just a bed and some books…"

"Your bed?"

"No."

"Your books?"

"No, but-"

"Is there even one thing about this room based on anything that is real?"

"Beds and books are real," Thea argued.

"They are concepts," Sherlock's voice rose. "You are meant to furnish with things you _know_."

"Oh… _oh…_ " Realisation hit Thea like a ton of bricks. "Bollocks. Is that why they got in?"

"Of course that's why they got in," her father groaned, raw with exasperation. "You can't expect figments of imagination to guard you against figments of

imagination. Come on! This is elementary stuff…"

"Oh, bloody hell…" Thea felt as though she might actually ignite with shame.

"And here comes clarity," Sherlock commented, sitting down next to her on the sofa.

"Jesus, I'm a moron," Thea sighed. "I'm an actual moron…how do you stand me?"

"You're not always a moron," he said unconvincingly.

"How do I even manage to breathe and walk at the same time?" Thea was so mortified she started giggling. "He threatens to lock me into a hole in the ground

for the rest of my life and I get scared of the _pictures_."

"Magical thinking," Mycroft mused, pouring tea absentmindedly. "Most children are prone to it, I suppose…I just never even considered that you might be, too.

My mistake."

Thea stared at him.

"Are you _apologising_?"

"Certainly not," said her uncle. "I am, however, acknowledging that I could have taught you techniques to prevent your mind from plunging you into this kind of

mayhem, had I paid more attention."

"Can you still?" Thea asked hopefully.

"Naturally."

"And you, too?" she looked at her father.

"Yep." He cleared his throat. "Are we still going in the basement later?"

"Nah," Thea shrugged and sipped tea. "I don't think that'll be necessary."


	16. Birthday

When John and Sherlock walked into the living room, Thea was putting the finishing touches to a valiant attempt at a formal dinner setting. The plates might

not have matched but they were not containers, the food on said plates might not have been home cooked but it was from the nicest Indian on the block, the

tea towels might not have been serviettes but they were folded into nice orchid shapes, the wine might not have been particularly nice but it had come from a

bottle with an actual cork in it, bits of which Thea was in the process of fishing from a large tumbler with a teaspoon.

"Oh, great," she turned and smiled at them broadly. "Just in time."

"No," Sherlock said firmly.

"No what?" John asked, pulling out a chair and taking up a spoon with great enthusiasm, he was famished.

"No to whatever she is about to ask for," Sherlock explained. "Considering the effort it must be something fairly extravagant."

Thea let the pieces of cork drop back into the glass and pushed it towards the place intended for her father. She sat down and started poking at her curry.

"Go on then," Sherlock sniffed the wine and made a face. "Just because I'm refusing doesn't mean I don't want to know."

"Piss off," Thea grumbled.

"No, really, do tell."

"Can't one just have a nice dinner once in a while without you going all paranoid?"

"No."

"Why? Just because you don't get why this sort of thing is nice? It's nice, innit, John?"

"Lovely," John said.

"Don't say 'innit'," Sherlock winced. "Just because you're enjoying fraternising with rabble these days you don't need to abandon all grasp on grammar."

"They're hardly rabble," Thea said with a smirk. "That would preclude cottages in Cornwall and whatever extortionate school fees their parents willingly pay."

"They like to pretend they are though, don't they," Sherlock poked at the cork floaters in his glass and smiled serenely. "Punk rock and all that?"

" _You_ ," Thea pointed at him with her fork, "wouldn't know punk rock if Sid Vicious himself bit you on the arse, so please don't be pretentious."

"Is it your bedtime yet?"

"I'm having a birthday party on Saturday," Thea announced completely without warning or context.

"Oh nice," John smiled. "Who's?"

"Mine."

"Your birthday's not on Saturday," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yea, I know that, thank you."

"When is your birthday?" John asked.

"It was yesterday," Thea said, eyeballing her father.

"What? Yesterday? But-"

"It's perfectly reasonable to have your party on a different day if the actual day is inconvenient," Thea told Sherlock.

"Don't take that tone," he said.

"In fact," Thea went on, "it's customary to celebrate on the weekend directly following the date of one's birth."

"You did hear me say no earlier, didn't you?"

"Now, can we rewind for just a minute," John interjected. "Her birthday was yesterday?"

"Yes," both Holmes snapped.

John stared at Sherlock.

"What?"

"You didn't do anything," John said.

"I did many things," Sherlock disagreed. "We went and saw-"

"No, you blithering imbecile," John interrupted. "I mean you didn't do anything for your only daughter's birthday."

The look of incomprehension on his friend's face was so genuine, John couldn't quite wrap his head around it.

"Don't even bother," Thea told John before turning her attention back to her father. "I'm not asking. I am telling you, this Saturday, I'm having my party."

"So, what?" Sherlock asked, exasperation rearing its head. "You expect me to blow up balloons and organise games for your friends?"

"I'm not five years old," Thea said coolly.

"Oooh, I'm sorry," his sarcasm might have stripped paint of the wall. "Your maturity levels must be confusing me."

"It's happening." Thea put her hands flat on the table and gave him her best challenging look.

"Not here it isn't." Her father met her eyes without as much as a flinch.

"Indeed it is," Thea said. "Invitations are out, RSVPs are in."

"Excuse me?"

"Saturday. Noon." Thea stood abruptly, took her plate and left the room.

John was still staring in Sherlock, his spoon hovering above his plate.

"What?" Sherlock asked huffily.

"What was that?" John asked.

"I believe you just witnessed the pinnacle of ludicrous insolence." Sherlock shook his head. "Can you believe her?"

" _Her_?" John put his spoon down and folded his hands under his chin. "The kid wants to have a birthday party and you go all…bizarre and arsy."

"You can't be-"

"Why is your ten- no, sorry, eleven-year-old, organising her own birthday in the first place?" John cut him off. "That's both impressive and very, very sad."

"Children like to test boundaries, I suppose," Sherlock said pensively. "First for everything – first cigarette, first truancy…

"First time?" John asked incredulous. "Are you telling me she – you have never celebrated her birthday?"

Sherlock looked at him as though John had inquired whether or not he was in the habit of eating broken glass.

"Not once?" John waited expectantly, hopeful but not confident that he was misunderstanding.

"Of course not," Sherlock said.

"Of course not?" John echoed. "Why?"

"Well, firstly because birthdays are insufferably dull and secondly, the conundrum of it also being the anniversary of the host's death. Supposedly that can be

very upsetting for a child."

"Who told you this?"

"Some woman from some service or other," Sherlock said vaguely. "Long time ago, a period that was a bit of a blur."

"So your solution is to let her birthdays pass without notice."

"And my own," Sherlock clarified. "We don't do birthdays. It's less messy that way."

"Less messy?"

"Enough with the echolalia already," Sherlock snapped. "It's not happening."

John's phone beeped in the depth of his pocket. He read the message and tapped out a brief reply.

"Anything good?" Sherlock asked.

"Party invitation."

"Tenacious little beast. Did you let her down gently?"

"No, actually," John smiled at him. "I was delighted to accept."

()

Things were decidedly frosty between Sherlock and Thea for the remainder of the week. While neither of them touched on the subject of birthdays again, they

didn't touch on any other subjects either. Thea took to doing her homework in Mrs Hudson's kitchen rather than their own and would only linger in the living

room for as long as it would take her to choose a book to read in her room, as opposed to her usual spot on the sofa.

"Not wanting to be overly obvious here," John said after a few days of watching this, "but I think she is actually pissed off with you this time."

"Temper tantrums are to be expected from time to time," Sherlock told his microscope. "The general consensus is that it's best not to acknowledge it."

"Been reading books on parenting, have we?" John could not be bothered to hide his sarcasm. "Did they have anything to say on the subject of irrational

refusal to commemorate your offspring's arrival in the world?"

"I'm as aware of your position on this," Sherlock said, "as you are of mine. I am not prepared to budge. Are you?"

"No."

"No further discussion needed," Sherlock concluded.

()

While Thea's original guest list had been limited to Lisa and Marcus, her father's reaction had moved her to extend it. Late on Thursday evening, while Sherlock

was safely ensconced in his palace, immersed to the point of being oblivious to his hair being on fire, she opened his email account and composed a brief,

carefully worded message. After reading it over several times, checking for any errors in style and tone, she pressed send and went to bed with a feeling of

deep satisfaction.

She was still buoyant the next morning, so much so she deigned to have a cup of tea in the kitchen even though Sherlock was present, albeit hidden behind

the papers. As Thea was draining the dregs of her tea, his phone buzzed and his face as he read the text was, to Thea, the icing and cherry and rainbow

sprinkles on top of an already very nice cake.

" _You_."

She looked at him innocently.

"How dare you?"

Thea didn't bother fighting the grin that was threatening to split her face in two.

"Me?" she asked. "I didn't do anything."

"What have I done to deserve this?" Sherlock was advancing and Thea, now giggling hysterically, was moving swiftly to keep the table between them.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she chirruped. "Who texted you?"

"You know perfectly well who it was, you Machiavellian miscreant," Sherlock roared.

"What now?" John appeared in the door, wearing his robe and a wary frown.

"He's psychotic," Thea shouted happily, circling the table while her father stalked her like a panther.

"She's out of control," Sherlock hissed at John.

"What now?" John repeated, sounding very tired.

"This brood of vipers has taken it upon herself to summon my parents to her imaginary shinding."

"Correction," Thea's grin was now a little diabolical. "I didn't invite them, you did. And it's not imaginary, it is _on._ Like Kong. Innit, John?"

Her father emitted a sound of savage outrage and launched himself across the table. Thea danced out of his reach like a boxer.

"Is this honestly your reaction to your daughter inviting her grandparents for her birthday?" John asked.

"No," Thea turned briefly to smile at him. "It's his reaction to being outsmarted. And by a little girl, ooooh, that's got to be a blow."

"Don't flatter yourself," Sherlock snarled.

"Am I wrong?" Thea asked pleasantly. "Go on then, if I'm wrong, uninvite them. Tell them it's cancelled."

Her father glared at her.

"Why are you goading him?" John asked Thea.

"Because he can't do it," Thea said. "Gran would eat him alive. He'd never hear the end of it."

"Why would he care?" John cocked his head.

"Well, that's the big question, _innit_?" Thea regarded her father triumphantly.

"I should give you a thrashing to put Dickens to shame," Sherlock said glumly, sat and disappeared behind his dishevelled newspaper.

"Have lovely day, John," Thea said in her sweetest tone, picking her backpack off the floor. "Don't let surly Sherly spoil it."

She skipped from the room and slammed the door downstairs with enough force to rattle the kitchen windows.

()

Thea borrowed Marcus phone during their lunchbreak.

"This better be a life and death emergency," her uncle said.

"And a good day to you," Thea said pleasantly.

"What is it?"

"Are you busy tomorrow at lunchtime?"

"Exceedingly."

"Because if you're not," she carried on, "you could come to my birthday party."

There was an unusually lengthy silence.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft asked finally.

"The concept can't be entirely alien to you," said Thea. "Cake and so on?"

"I'm familiar…"

"Great. You can bring Gran and Gramps, they'll be staying at the Wolseley. See you tomorrow, uncle dear."

()

When her father stomped into the living room at eleven-thirty on Saturday morning, Thea was struggling to force the kitchen cupboard shut.

"Where is my equipment?" Sherlock demanded.

"Out of the way," Thea grunted, put all her weight against the door and flinched at the sound of glass breaking behind it.

Sherlock rolled harrumphed and flopped onto the couch. Thea stood and surveyed the kitchen and living room.

"I hate it when you tidy up," her father moaned. "Things go missing."

"You should get dressed," Thea said against her better judgement.

"You should go play hopscotch on the M5," he answered.

Thea sighed and went to put on her Saturday best, an oversized _The Clash_ t-shirt and a pair of obscenely yellow tights. She sat on her desk for a while, looking

at the street below, until a black car pulled up. As she watched her family emerge, Thea felt so many strange things at once it made her a little nauseated.

When she heard the door open downstairs, she climbed off her desk and went to meet them.

"Oh my goodness," her grandmother exclaimed when she spotted Thea awkwardly lurking at the top of the stairs. "You're enormous, look at you!"

For a long while the world grew muffled as Thea was embraced, held at arms distance for further inspection and embraced some more.

"Where is that son of mine?" her grandmother finally asked, marching towards the living room without waiting for an answer, her husband following with a

bemused smile.

Thea turned to look up at her uncle. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Eleven," he said.

"Quite so."

He gave the smallest of smiles and nodded towards the living room.

"Shall we?"

Thea was surprised to find the room empty, save for her grandfather perusing the bookshelves. She gave him a questioning look.

"She's dragged him off to get dressed," he explained happily. "Come sit with me, pet, and tell me absolutely everything."

"There's not much to tell…" Thea suddenly felt strangely self-conscious.

"I want to hear about that especially."

By the time her grandmother appeared, a scowling but fully dressed Sherlock in tow, Mycroft had disappeared to answer his phone in the hallway and Thea

was in full swing.

"- you'll meet them in a bit," she said. "They are spectacularly lovely…"

"Who's this?" her grandmother sank onto the sofa beside them.

"Lisa and Marcus," said Thea.

"They're Thea's band colleagues," her grandfather added.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and retreated to his chair.

"Marvellous," her grandmother cooed. "What sort of music?"

"Uhm…all kinds, really," Thea said carefully. "We're having a bit of a late seventies retrospective at the moment, I guess."

"Splendid period," her grandmother nodded appreciatively. "I was quite fond of – what were they called, darling? – oh, yes, Joy Division."

Thea gaped somewhat idiotically.

"Oh please," her grandmother said. "Just because my children have chosen to shun popular culture does not mean I have to be stuck in Victorian times."

"We do a couple of their songs, actually," Thea beamed. " _Day of the Lords_ and _She's Lost Control_."

"I do like that one." Her grandmother pulled her into another hug. "You seem so…I don't know…so much more in the world. Do you know what I mean?"

Thea laughed and shook her head.

"Of course she doesn't, you're not making any sense," Sherlock grumbled.

"I'm just happy to see you both looking so well," his mother sighed. "God knows, I worry. And I don't enjoy it."

"Nothing to worry about, Gran," Thea said, ignoring her father's petulant muttering. "Things are going swimmingly. We've got a new flatmate, actually-"

"I've heard," said her grandmother.

"From who?" Thea asked, perplexed. As far as she knew her father wasn't in the habit of talking to her grandparents.

"Myc mentioned him."

Sherlock sighed and let his head fall back dramatically, every fibre of his being radiating boredom.

"He's lasted, hasn't he?" Thea's grandfather mused. "Must have been over six months."

"Eight, actually."

They turned at the sound of John's voice, he was standing in the doorway, observing the scene curiously, holding a box wrapped with absurdly psychedelic

paper.

"This is John," Thea got up and pulled him into the room. "John these are my grandparents."

"Lovely to meet you," John handed Thea his package, freeing himself for some hand shaking.

"Thanks," Thea said, wondering if it was natural to blush at receiving a birthday gift.

"Go on then," John said encouragingly.

"Do I open it now?" she asked.

"'Course you do," he smiled. "That's how it works."

Thea was acutely aware of being watched as she carefully peeled back the paper. Inside was a shoe box containing a pair of bright orange Doc Martin's boots.

She stared at them.

"They might be a bit big," John said apologetically.

"Shoes?" Sherlock snarled. "Really?"

"Shut up," Thea said, lifting one of the boots from the box and turning it over in her hands.

"You can exchange them, if you-" John started.

"No!" Thea said vehemently. "No, I – they're just so…very, very, extremely, preposterously amazing. Can I put them on?"

"There's little else you could do with them," her father remarked.

Ignoring him, Thea slipped her feet into the stiff leather.

"That's quite the look," her grandfather chuckled. "Your legs could blind people."

"Grand," Sherlock rose from his chair. "Well, this has been fun, hasn't it, but all good things come to an-"

The doorbell interrupted.

"I'll get it," Thea shouted and ran from the room.

Lisa and Marcus, weighed down by their bass and guitar cases respectively, greeted her with raucous roars of "Happy Birthday!"

"Hey," Thea beamed. "Go on up, I'll be there in one second."

She raced through to Mrs Hudson's kitchen, only to have the door slammed in her face.

"You can't come in just now," Mrs Hudson called from the other side. "I'll be up in just a minute though, darling."

"Could you?" Thea called back. "He's about to lose it, I really need you to subdue him."

"Oh, don't worry about that grumpy sod," Mrs Hudson opened the door a crack and gave her a reassuring smile. "I'll take care of it. Two minutes, tops."

"Thank you," Thea sighed with relief and jogged back up the stairs.

She noted with immense relief that her grandparents had intercepted her friends before they could go anywhere near the seething bundle of nerves that was

Sherlock.

"There you are," her grandmother cheered. "This lovely young man was just praising your percussion skills."

"She's turning into a regular Keith Moon," Marcus said pleasantly. "Aren't you, beastie?"

"Uhm…" Thea scratched the back of her head.

"Don't play coy," Marcus rolled his eyes at Thea's grandmother with mock exasperation and stage whispered, "Eleven is an awkward age isn't it? Kids –

whatchagonnado…"

Gran looked as though she might kiss Marcus.

"Lees, gift her," Marcus ordered.

Lisa dug into the front of her bass bag and produced an Mp3 player.

"That's mine," Thea pointed out.

"Well, obviously," said Lisa. "Marcus nicked it from your bag yesterday."

"Okay…"

"So we stayed up until stupid o'clock giving it a bit of a makeover."

Thea scrolled through the playlists.

"'Riding home after practice in light drizzle warmed only by the afterglow'," she read. "'Sitting on the library steps because Lisa is always late'?"

"Setting the mood is important," Lisa said gravely. "My favourite is 'Fury at unspecified parental injustice'."

"That might get an extraordinary amount of airtime," Thea said. "Oh cool, you've made a practice one, too."

"You're to go through that at least once a week," Marcus announced. "No slacking off."

"Slavedriver," Thea said grinning like a maniac.

"Youth of today," Marcus looked to Thea's grandfather for support. "No manners, no respect for their elders."

"You're not that elderly," Thea pointed out.

"Elderly enough to be embarrassed to admit you do most of my homework for me," Marcus sighed.

"It's not her fault you're slow," said Lisa.

"This is-" Sherlock started.

"Happy birthday, Thea darling!" Mrs Hudson cut him off, entering the room with a large plate balanced on one hand and flowerpot on the other.

"Have you asked the whole town to invade?" Sherlock stared at Thea in desperation.

"Don't be ludicrous, dear, I live here," Mrs Hudson said patiently. "Make yourself useful and put the kettle on."

Sherlock slunk towards the kitchen and Mrs Hudson placed the plate on the coffee table.

"Did you make that?" Thea asked in wonder.

"I certainly did."

Lisa angled her head to get a better look at the cake.

"That," she said with an appreciative grin, "is hilarious."

"I did think it was a bit clever myself," Mrs Hudson admitted.

The cake, iced a violent shade of green, had been painstakingly cut in the shape of a Pi.

"You didn't come up with that," Sherlock announced from the kitchen.

"True, I got it off the internet," Mrs Hudson smiled serenely, "but it's still a bit of fun."

"Is that a Venus flytrap?" Marcus asked, eyeing the flowerpot.

"You know your botany, young man."

"Are you going to blow out those candles or what?" Lisa asked.

Thea took a deep breath but her grandmother stopped her.

"Got to sing first," she announced, turning to shout into the hallway, "Myc, get off that phone, the nation won't crumble in the next fifteen minutes!"

Mycroft entered the room reluctantly, his phone still in his hand.

"Sherlock!"

"I'm fine here…"

"You are certainly not," Thea's grandmother said sternly. "Come here and sing."

"Oh, this is just-"

"At once."

As Thea stood, surrounded by what for better or worse amounted to her nearest and dearest, being serenaded, she felt almost indecently happy. Amongst

shouts of Hip Hip and Hooray, she blew out the candles.

"Speech!" Lisa shouted, fist pumping the air.

"Piss off!"

"Really…"

"Sorry, Gran."

"No, really," Lisa smirked. "Speech?"

"I-"

"Do refrain from making this even more painful," her father cut her off. "Surely we're nearing the end of this parade of sentimentalities?"

Thea regarded him for a moment. He was on the edge of breaking, his flat was full of people and small talk, things certain to maim his insides. Yet he was still

there.

"Almost done," Thea said, smiling at him. "You've done really well. Thank you."

The ensuing silence confused her. Her grandparents were looking at her strangely misty eyed, John was studying his teacup intently, Mrs Hudson was

eyeballing Sherlock, her uncle stood with a bemused expression near the door – only Lisa and Marcus, oblivious to the shift in mood, were busy taking pictures

of the cake with their phones. Thea looked around the room, frantically contemplating the best next move.

"Should we cut-" she started.

"You are a strange and astonishing creature," Sherlock said suddenly. "You always have been."

"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked quietly.

"It's called a toast, brother mine, I'm sure you've heard of them."

"You don't have to," Thea said. "It's not necessary."

"On the contrary," her father gave her a pointed look, "I believe it is in fact customary on these kinds of occasions."

Thea was about to protest but reconsidered. She settled back into the sofa between her grandparents and waited.

"I have never seen the point of birthdays," Sherlock continued. "They are pedestrian occasions of forced cheer, lack all originality and are numbingly dull. Gifts

tend to be generic, good fronts tend to be put on – I cannot see how the concept might appeal."

The room was certainly giving him its undivided attention now.

"However, I am rarely able to see the point of things people do," Sherlock said. "It's a trait that has no doubt complicated my daughter's life. It's also,

thankfully, a trait that appears non-hereditary. Or perhaps Alethea's seemingly infinite patience with idiots, including me, allows her to understand things that

are beyond my grasp."

"Oh, Sherlock," Thea's grandmother said softly.

"Not finished," he said. "I have spent an extraordinary amount of time telling Alethea that expectations will breed nothing but disappointment. It seems I have

succeeded in discouraging her from expecting anything above the bare minimum from anyone, especially me."

"That's not-" Thea started.

"So. If expectation is indeed the root of disappointment," Sherlock talked over her, "one can logically assume that those who expect nothing will not be

disappointed. Lauren, Manuel – I'm pleased to see you've brought your instruments as per request."

"What request?" Thea asked, now utterly confused.

"He said to bring them," Lisa said simply.

"What?"

"And also not to tell you," Marcus added.

"You what?"

"Question time is over," Sherlock announced. "Allow me."

He walked to the sofa and tied his scarf over Thea's eyes before pulling her up.

"Off we go. Let's put my hypothesis to the test."

"No! What? No-" Thea planted her feet as he tried to guide her blindly from the room. "You're freaking me out!"

She could hear Lisa and Marcus losing the plot laughing. Very reluctantly, she allowed herself to be steered forwards, both hands stretched in front of her. Out

of the living room…

"Stairs," Sherlock said quietly.

Down the stairs, along the hall, down more stairs.

"Stop."

She heard a door creak open.

"Holy shit," Marcus said next to her.

"You're going to lose your mind in a second," Lisa whispered on the other side.

Heart pounding in her ears, Thea stood motionless.

"You can take it off now," her father said.

"I don't know that I want to," she said.

"Believe me," she could hear John somewhere behind her, "you want to."

Slowly Thea reached behind her head and untied the scarf. She opened her eyes and squinted.

In front of the mouldy fireplace of 221C stood a drum kit.


	17. Gift

Thea could barely lift her arms anymore by the time Lisa and Marcus had to leave.

"We're going to The Forum to see Kreator," said Lisa. "We can try and sneak you in if you want. Birthday treat?"

"Tempting," Thea admitted. "But I think I'll do the family thing, for what it's worth."

"Fair enough, beastie," Marcus ruffled her hair. "And practise, practise, practise, yea? No excuses now."

"Aye aye," Thea saluted and watched her friends stroll into the falling dark.

()

On her way upstairs she met her uncle.

"You're still here?" she asked, astonished.

"I've come and gone a number of times," Mycroft said. "Not that you would have noticed in your bubble of noise pollution."

Thea smiled. It seemed her face was capable of little else today.

"Though I admit your drumming is very…accurate. Not to mention enthusiastic."

"Thank you," Thea said. "Are you off again now?"

"I am and I'm afraid I shan't return," he said. "I'll send a car for Mummy and Dad when they're ready to go."

"Okay."

Thea waited for her uncle to leave but he hovered. She looked at him curiously. He cleared his throat.

"I have something for you," he said finally.

"Seriously?" Thea felt as though she'd entered an alternate universe for the second time in one day. Mycroft did not do gifts, even less so than Sherlock.

To her utter astonishment, her uncle withdrew a small envelope from his pocket and held it out to her. She took it cautiously, assessing the contents with her

fingertips. At first she thought it might be a credit card – by size, shape and thickness – but she could not feel any embossed letters through the paper. Mycroft

observed her with the faintest suggestion of a smile.

"It's not a test," he said quietly.

"That's novel."

Thea opened the envelope. In it was a student identification card, slightly worn. She stared at it, speechless, until it became blurry.

"It isn't a particularly flattering picture, I'm afraid."

"It really isn't," Thea half-laughed, half-sobbed.

She could not stop looking at Agnes Tremaine, approximately twenty-four, with glasses, a mildly bored expression and the same nose and eyebrows Thea saw

every time she encountered a mirror.

"I seem to recall she had a weakness for cherries."

Thea wrapped her arms around her uncle's waist before she could think better of it. He stiffened slightly, then tentatively reciprocated.

"What are you doing?"

They sprung apart as if electrocuted.

"Why are you all…weepy?" Sherlock demanded from the top of the stairs. "Mycroft, stop traumatising my child."

"Uncle Mycroft was just leaving," Thea wiped at her eyes with one hand, sliding the I.D. into the waistband of her leggings with the other. "We're…farewelling."

"I suppose the ridiculous sentiment of the occasion calls for this kind of display?" Sherlock eyed them suspiciously.

"Quite so." Mycroft cleared his throat once more. "I bid you goodnight then. Do keep the parents up as late as possible? They've threatened to take us out for

brunch, exhaustion might deter them. If we're lucky."


	18. Home Visit

John opened the door to the living room, stopped to survey it and took a tentative step inside what appeared to be a parallel universe. He had become so

used to the comfortable chaos of their home, the very chaos he had left behind when he set off to work in the morning that the sudden onslaught of tidiness

was most disconcerting. The mantle had been cleared of paperwork, no letters were speared to it with butterfly knives, the kitchen was clear of experiments

and there wasn't so much as a machete in sight. On the kitchen table, in lieu of the bowl of hair samples he'd admired this morning, stood a vase of flowers he

vaguely recognised from Mrs Hudson's sitting room. Above the sofa someone had tacked up a poster of Salvador Dali's _Fast Moving Still Life_ to cover up the

smiley and the bullet holes. The stack of crime scene photographs was gone from the coffee table, replaced by a stack of books on meditation sitting next to an

untouched plate of biscuits.

The front door opened and shut and a moment later Sherlock materialised, carrying what looked suspiciously like a bag of groceries.

"John," he said, squeezing past him, placing the bag on the kitchen table and opening the fridge, revealing several large petri dishes containing what appeared

to be slices of brain.

" _Alethea_!" Sherlock hollered.

Quick steps thundered down the stairs and Thea appeared, a towel draped over her shoulders, her hair wet.

"I was honestly just coming," she said, taking out a tray and starting to stack the petri dishes onto it. "We've still got ten minutes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her and proceeded to stack tins upon tins of spaghetti, baked beans and beef stew on the kitchen counter.

"If you drop these on the stairs you'll live out your remaining adolescence in a cupboard," he told Thea when she took up the tray of brains.

She grunted an unintelligible response and began a slow and careful descent to Mrs Hudson's flat. John watched Sherlock stack his purchases in the fridge.

Bread, milk, cheese, tomatoes, juice, yogurt… no one currently living here ever ate yogurt. Sherlock stood, closed the fridge and scanned the room. His eyes fell

on the skull still resting on the mantle and a moment later he was cramming it into the cupboard under the sink, which was already accommodating most of the

things missing from the living room.

"What's going on?" John asked.

"Home visit," Thea piped up behind him. She had disposed of the brain and the towel and was _braiding_ her hair.

"Your room done?" Sherlock asked, looking at his watch.

"Yup." Thea looked her father up and down. "Why aren't you dressed yet?"

"Home visit?" John watched in awe as Sherlock disappeared towards his room without as much as a huff despite being fully clothed in his usual uniform of black

pants and white shirt. "Like from a social worker?"

"No, from the queen," she said. "Of course from a bloody social worker."

"Uhm, why?"

"History with illicit substances." Sherlock returned to the living room wearing jeans, a faded long sleeve T-shirt and woollen socks, no shoes. "Compulsory

check-up to ascertain a safe and healthy environment is provided for my dear, sweet child."

"They used to come all the time," Thea volunteered. "Now it's only every six months or so."

"So-"

The doorbell rang.

"Places!" Sherlock announced and both Holmes darted from the room, Thea upstairs and Sherlock towards the door.

()

"Hiya Miss Travers." _Hiya?_ John started then smirked at Sherlock's almost comically hapless tone and went to put the kettle on.

The social worker was a sober looking woman in her early forties, dressed in a fitted skirt and blouse, carrying a shoulder bag of files and a handbag and took

her time surveying the room before she accepted Sherlock's offer of a seat.

"This is rather nice," she said.

"Glad you like it," Sherlock said amicably. "This is John. John, this is Miss Travers."

"Nice to meet you," said John, picking up his cup and paper. "Would you like me to give you some space?"

"I don't mind," she said. "Sherlock?"

He shrugged towards John's chair and John took a seat, barricading himself behind the paper and looking forward to the show.

"So," Miss Travers pulled one of her folders from her bag. "How are you getting on?"

"Good," Sherlock answered, wandering towards the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Please," she said. "So, you've been living here for…my, we haven't seen you in an age…" she consulted the papers "…nine months. That's a record. Dare I

take it as a sign that nomadic life is coming to an end?"

"We're pretty settled." Tea-making noises drifted from the kitchen.

"How do you feel about that?"

John bit his lip behind the paper, waiting for a scathing repartee.

"To be honest, I'm trying not to overthink." John's eyes popped slightly at Sherlock's earnest reply. "It seems to be doing Thea a world of good though."

"Is she home?"

"Upstairs. Doing homework, I hope." Sherlock sat a tray of tea things on the coffee table. "Will I get her?"

"In a bit." Tea was poured. "So, are you working?"

"Yes."

"Still at St. Bart's? In the lab, was it?"

"Yes."

"How is that working out in terms of Thea's school hours?" Miss Travers asked. "I imagine you don't get to knock off at three on the dot."

"It really depends on the day," Sherlock said defensively, sounding surprisingly uncomfortable.

"Look," Miss Travers said, tone softening. "I can see you're doing really, really well, but I still have to ask about this, about supervision especially, seeing as

that's been something of a recurring issue."

"I know, I know…" Sherlock sighed. "Still, it's not a particularly good feeling to know you've put yourself in a position where these questions even have to be

asked."

"I do understand that." John peered around the corner of his paper and saw her reach over and _squeeze_ Sherlock's knee. "Where does Thea go after school?

And please don't tell me you have her come to your work, Sherlock. That's not a viable option and I know after school care can be pricey but arrangements-"

"Actually," he interrupted her softly. "We've had a bit of a stroke of luck."

"Do tell."

"The landlady's something of a family friend," Sherlock explained. "She's in the downstairs flat and she' looking after Thea in the afternoons. She's retired, see,

so she reckons she's glad for the company. You should have her on your lists of approved care persons – Mrs Hudson."

John listened to the shuffling of papers. He had of course witnessed Sherlock's temporary transformations before, but never sustained for anything over a few

minutes, that's usually all it took. If crime dried up there was always the West End…

"There she is," Miss Travers said brightly. "That _is_ lucky."

"We've struck gold, it seems," Sherlock said.

"Tests are all good…clear, clear, clear…" There was the sound of a pen ticking boxes. "Right. Now, before you call Thea down – new school, I hear?"

"Yes."

"How come?"

"Had a bit of a hard time, I guess..." It was painful to listen to Sherlock pretending to search for words, John was cringing behind his paper.

"In terms of the school work?" Miss Travers sounded surprised.

"No," Sherlock sounded affronted. "No, if anything she was a bit bored – but she didn't quite fit in, y' know?"

"And the new school, what is it…Yarville has been working out?"

"She loves it, absolutely loves it. Will not shut up about how great it is. D'you want a biscuit?"

"Thanks. Are they to prove you've actually got food in the house?"

"Maybe," Sherlock said sheepishly. "You're welcome to look in the fridge. But seriously though, this new school's been just brilliant for her. No skipping lessons,

no trips to the office, not a single caution, nothing. Ask her, she'll tell you all about it no doubt."

"What about the school fees?"

"Same arrangement as before."

"Now, I know you two have your differences, but that is really very big of your brother."

"I know, he's a champ."

John nearly dropped the paper and managed to turn a laugh into a subdued cough, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

"D'you mind getting Thea?" Miss Travers asked.

"Not at all." Sherlock shuffled to the living room door and hollered "Oy, Thea, love! Come here a sec!"

"Just a minute, dad," Thea called back.

John folded his paper down as Thea entered the room, wearing a knee-length navy skirt, a black cardigan and, to his utter bemusement, glasses.

"Hiya, Eleanor," she chirped and allowed the social worker to fold her into a hug. "Long time no see."

"So nice to see you again, Thea," Miss Travers smiled at her warmly. "I love your new flat."

"Isn't it the best?" Thea gushed. "Would you like to see my room? It's got four walls and everything, you'll be pleased to hear. Can I show you? It's really nice."

Miss Travers laughed.

"Sure," she said. "Lead the way."

"What are you two up to?" John asked in a low voice as soon as Thea had practically dragged the social worker from the room.

"Alleviating soul-crushing boredom," Sherlock said, his voice back to normal. "It's a shame it's Travers today, Mrs Pickering's much better fun – Alethea got a

stutter for her that would make your teeth rattle."

"A stutter?"

"Barely gets a coherent sentence out, it's gutwrenching…oh, come on, John." The detective raised an eyebrow at him when he saw his face. "It's a game,

children love games."

"I can see that," John muttered and resumed his front row seats as footsteps sounded in the hallway. Sherlock popped himself back into his seat, posture

awful and a gormless smile plastered on his face.

"Thea tells me you're off the cigarettes," Miss Travers said, giving Sherlock a fond look. "That's great."

"Hard going but," he said.

Thea crossed the room and settled herself on the armrest of his chair, draping her arm around his shoulders. Sherlock slid his own around her waist and, thus

entwined, they looked at the social worker expectantly.

"So, Thea, school. I hear you've been staying out of trouble."

Thea blushed slightly.

"Don't get all shy now, love." Sherlock nudged her. "Go on."

"They've got science facilities you wouldn't believe," Thea blurted out. "And they don't make me do work at my actual grade level, it's all based on merit, so I

get to actually challenge myself. My English group is going to the globe next month, so that's a bit exciting, standing seats in the pit and all, I'm really looking

forward to it. And I'm doing quite well, so I'm told."

"She's being daftly modest." Sherlock pulled Thea closer. "Must get her brains from her mother, because my girl here's a proper genius. They reckon she'll be

working at A-level standard next year."

"Stop it, dad," Thea muttered, blushing deeper. John had not even been aware that a person could train themselves to blush on cue.

"You should be proud of yourself, Thea," Miss Travers chimed in.

"Thank you," Thea said quietly. "It's just, things are going so well with school and dad's work and now with dad and John…I don't want to jinx it I guess."

John practically threw his paper down and the rustling was deafening in the silent room.

"Oh really…" Miss Travers smiled at Thea but her eyes drifted towards John in his chair.

"I-" he said, staring at Thea in disbelief.

"Oh god," she shrieked, clapping her hands in front of her mouth. "Was I not meant to- didn't you tell her, dad? Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I-"

"Hey, hey…" Sherlock gently pulled her hands from her face. "It's alright. I'd not gotten round to it, it hadn't come up."

Thea was looking over at John, tears gathering in her eyes, looking horrifically contrite.

"John, I'm really sorry. Don't be mad…"she sniffled.

Vowing to axemurder both father and daughter in their beds tonight, John forced a slightly embarrassed smile on his face.

"No one's mad, Thea," he said gently.

"It's not against the rules, is it?" Thea asked Miss Travers with sudden alarm.

"It is not against the rules," the social worker said reassuringly. "You didn't do anything wrong, okay? Love is love and it's never a bad thing."

"That's exactly what John said!" Thea looked at him gleefully. John cleared his throat.

"Come on now, Sherlock, John," Miss Travers set her file aside and leaned forward with a big grin. "Spill the beans. Where'd you two meet?"

()

When the door fell shut behind Miss Travers quite some time later, Thea practically fell from the armrest of the chair, rendered help- and boneless with

laughter. John was seething in his chair but saved his explosion for Sherlock's return.

"You two are bloody unbelievable," he thundered as soon as the detective crossed the threshold.

"Why are you shouting at me?" Sherlock startled. "I didn't do anything. Little Miss Plot-Twist over here is the responsible party, I'm sure we can agree?"

"Don't pretend you had no idea," John growled.

"It's an exercise in improvisation," Sherlock said with a sigh, as though John was being particularly thick. "Having no idea is rather the point."

"Oh my god, your face!" Thea howled from her position on the floor.

"You're a menace!" John shouted. "Why? Why on earth would you do that?"

"It just sort of happened…" Thea managed to squeeze the words past salves of hilarity, "...it wasn't premeditated…"

"Why'd you go along with it?" John rounded on Sherlock, whose shoulders were shaking with barely supressed giggles.

"Why did you?" he shot back.

"Because I didn't want to get you idiots into trouble with your bloody social worker," John yelled.

"Precisely!" Sherlock was now snorting with laughter. "Oh, that was awful-"

"It was _gold_ ," Thea whimpered. "Ouch, ouch, I think I've ruptured my diaphragm…"

"Why did you do that?" John buried his face in his hands. He'd just spent the better part of twenty minutes listening to and _corroborating_ his flatmate's account

of their blossoming romance, starting – naturally – at a support meeting, which John had supposedly attended as the consulting physician. It had been beyond

cringeworthy.

"Well," Thea wiped her eyes and pulled herself into a seating position, leaning against the chair, "Miss Travers has a serious soft spot for him," she nodded

towards her father, "always has. She has been dressing progressively nicer every time she's come to see us. She's very touchy-feely with him, she'd just

re-done her hair before she walked in, her brush was on the very top in her handbag and so was some gum. Every time she comes, she looks around for signs

of a female co-habitant, counts toothbrushes, scans the shoe rack…if anyone would want to believe that he's unavailable to all women, it was her. Would

never have worked with any of the others."

"Not bad," Sherlock said appreciatively.

"Thank you." Thea smiled at him. "I bet you next time we see her she'll be back to the knitwear."

"Ten quid." Her father grinned back. "She'll be trying to turn me, you watch."

"You're on. John, you're witness, make sure he pays up because he'll pretend not to remember, you wait."

"Stark raving lunatics," John said darkly.

"Oh, keep your hair on," said Thea. "Right, shall I get the brains back? Can we do readings yet?"

"We can and we shall," Sherlock clapped his hands together. "I'll ready the dye."

"Sweet!" Thea jogged from the room to retrieve their specimen, Sherlock starting rooting through the cupboards and John, still dying a little inside from sheer

embarrassment, realised with wonder that the prospect of father and daughter immersing bits of brain in colourful chemicals made him feel like things were

back to normal.


	19. Recall

John opened the broom closet to get the vacuum cleaner.

"Jesus!"

Thea was standing in the centre of the otherwise completely empty storage space, her hands braced against the sidewalls, her eyes wide and a little vacant.

"Close the door!" Sherlock shouted from the kitchen. "She's got eight minutes to go."

For lack of a better idea John closed the door and wandered into the kitchen. Sherlock was surrounded by small containers of unpleasant bodily excretions,

scribbling notes onto the back of an A4 photograph depicting a rather bloated dead person.

"Why?" John asked.

"The question is not why but how. How did she manage to ingest enough fenitrothion to be lethal before a) noticing or b) being violently ill?"

"No, I meant why is Thea in the broom closet."

"I'm recalling information," came a voice from where the vacuum should have been.

"If you can hear us talking, you're not doing it correctly," Sherlock called out. "Six more minutes."

He nodded approvingly when no reply was forthcoming.

"What is-"

"She is recalling a set of images I asked her to store away." John sat down at the kitchen table and waited for more. "It's easier to do in a low sensory

environment. Small space helps ground you. Training wheels, basically."

"This is all part of the mind control thing, is it?" John asked.

"If by 'mind control thing' you mean that it is part of the curriculum devised to teach her to discipline her thought processes, then yes."

"How long has she been in there?"

"In five minutes it will have been half an hour."

"Half an hour? How long's this list of…images?"

"Forty-eight items."

"O-kay. How long ago did you ask her to remember them?"

"Four months ago."

"You expect her to remember forty-eight things from four months ago?" John looked at his flatmate with a distinct expression of 'come on now'.

"To a pedestrian thinker like yourself I'm sure it sounds unreasonable," Sherlock said with a slight sneer. "Which I assure you it isn't. Sets of under fifty items

should not pose a significant challenge, especially not for recall in under twelve months."

"So she's got more than one of these sets filed away then?"

"Seventy-one more, to be exact." Sherlock set aside his vial of bile and looked at John for the first time since he'd sat down. "One set per month for the past six

years, all of them – ideally – ready for more or less instant recall."

"Seriously?"

"Think of it as push-ups if it helps." The detective sighed at John's incredulous expression. "It's kids' stuff. Really not particularly demanding, but it's a helpful

enough exercise."

"So you're telling me," John was leaning onto the table top now, entirely intrigued, "that when Thea comes out of there, she'll be able to list the forty-eight

whatever it is-"

"-in the correct sequence, yes," Sherlock interrupted. "I should sincerely hope so, anyway. Time's up."

He strode into the hall and opened the closet door.

"Ready or not, out you come," he sing-songed.

Thea followed her father, blinking at the bright light above the kitchen table.

"Hey John," she said.

"Would it put you off if I stayed?" John asked her. "This I'd like to see."

"Not much to see," Thea shrugged, "suit yourself."

Sherlock whipped out his phone and opened the sound recorder.

"Ready?" he asked Thea.

She nodded, shaking her shoulders out and cracking her neck like a boxer about to enter the ring.

"Show-off," her father smirked before pressing record. "Alethea, three-eleven-ten, Set 68 – begin."

"Size 12 ladies runners, lime green; four conkers in a line; peanut butter toast on a yellow paper plate; brownstone building with broken fire escape; blackbird

feathers on a bowler hat; kitestrings; bull-ant nest; Lake Geneva; turnstiles at rush hour-"

John was taken aback by the speed of Thea's recital, she barely left herself spaces to breathe.

"-daisies wilting in a glass jar; sheet music, Bartok; gold flecks in toad eyes; goats cheese; knee-high socks with purple and black stripes; tomatoes;

newspaper from Wednesday the 15th August; Ben Kingsley as the caterpillar; sunrise; black spot; soccer goal-"

While Sherlock was keeping his expression perfectly neutral, John could tell from miniscule twitches around his mouth and eyes that he was quite pleased with

his daughter's performance. Thea of course, was way too deep in the zone to notice anything.

"-white chalk; for rent sign; a yurt burning; gardening gloves with torn left index and right thumb; lapis lazuli earrings; surfboards on a station wagon;

humpback whales jumping; two rotting leafs on a lake; postman; jack-in-the-box-"

Thea was tapping her foot rhythmically, staring at a spot on the wall just above her father's head.

"-flowering fennel; woollen mittens; tennis racket without mesh; skirting boards covered in dust; broken glass; light switch; ceiling fans; hospital beds-"

She took a deep breath.

"-Keep of the grass sign; flyer for an anti-shariah rally; Mickey Mouse; gallstones; oboe; stockades in the rain; church bells ringing; uncle Mycroft's umbrella;

flea circus."

Sherlock stopped recording and handed her a glass of water, which she downed in one.

"Tanzanite," he said with a small shake of the head.

"Oh, bloody bollocks!" Thea slapped her forehead.

"Better luck next time," her father turned his attention back to his work.

"Come on!" Thea protested. "They're both blue…"

Sherlock looked at her with a cocked eyebrow.

"Come _on_ …"

"What's the issue?" John asked fascinated.

"The earrings are not lapis lazuli, they are in fact tanzanite," Sherlock said pointedly. "She is beseeching me to overlook this because she wants me to make

good on the promised incentive. Which would technically be cheating. Because you," he pointed at his daughter, "did _not_ get it all, did you."

"That's the only thing she got wrong?" John looked from one Holmes to the other. "That's astounding."

"She's not meant to get _any_ thing wrong."

"I didn't even get it wrong exactly," Thea piped up, propping her elbows on the table and lifting her feet off the ground. "I went for extra credit and it

backfired."

"Oh really?" her father said dubiously.

"Yes. If I'd just said 'pair of blue gemstone earrings' we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

"True," Sherlock conceded. "But you didn't and here we are."

"You're worse than Uncle Mycroft," Thea groaned. "Pleeeeeease, please, pretty please?"

"What was the incentive?" John asked. He was intrigued. Thea wasn't prone to whining, it had to be something pretty spectacular to move her to such a slip of

decorum.

"The deal," Sherlock explained, "was that three consecutive successful recalls would be rewarded with an autopsy."

"And this would have been the third, I venture?"

"Yes," Thea was writhing on the table. "But someone's being unreasonably fastidious."

Her father sighed, giving John a look that screamed 'see what I have to put up with'.

"Come on," Thea continued her niggling. "I've been so good. So very, very good…what's the point in being good if you're going to penalise me for teeny, tiny

mistakes?"

Her father was ignoring her completely, his thumb flying across the screen of his phone, texting. Thea let her forehead sink to the table.

"Fine," she said, utterly dejected. "Bloody tanzanite. Fine. If anyone wants me, I'll be downstairs."

John watched her with a smirk and she slunk towards the door, grabbing her drumsticks off the sofa. A text pinged on Sherlock's mobile.

"Here are the conditions," he announced in the vague direction of Thea's turned back, texting back simultaneously. "You will do exactly as Miss Hooper

instructs. You will not touch anything without express permission. You will not disgrace yourself or me by fainting, throwing up or in any way demonstrating

discomfort. You will not hide pieces of the body in your pockets to smuggle home. Nor will you nick any medical equipment. Not even a scalpel. Am I making

myself perfectly clear?"

" _Really_?" The squealed, throwing her drumsticks into the air and scrambling into her jacket.

"Am I-"

"Crystal clear," Thea said quickly. "Absolutely one-hundred percent, no room for misunderstanding clear."

"Off you go," Sherlock sighed. "Miss Hooper is expecting you."

"Wicked!" Thea sprinted from the room and seconds later the front door slammed shut.

"Kids," Sherlock muttered.

"That was uncharacteristically good of you," John observed.

"I know," the detective sighed deeper still. "I spoil her terribly…"

"Uhm, yeah…" John rolled his eyes and went to continue his search for the vacuum cleaner.


	20. Correspondence

"Thea, have you sent me your term paper?" Mr O'Dowd had stopped her on her way out of the classroom.

"What term paper?" Thea asked in genuine surprise.

"Your term paper…" he eyed her suspiciously. "On Greek tragedies. _The_ piece of assessment. Have you sent it?"

"I completely forgot. I'm so sorry."

Thea had also forgotten to _write_ it, but seeing as this could be remedied in the next few hours it seemed like unnecessary information. Mr O'Dowd gave her a

mediocre stern look.

"I expect it by this evening," he said.

"How?" Thea frowned briefly. "Do you want me to courier it? That seems a bit excessive…" she attempted to read the look that came over his face now and

added quickly "…but as you wish, Mr O'Dowd, no problem. What address?"

"What are you talking about, Thea?" She recognised his expression now as flabbergasted.

"Where do I send the paper?"

Behind her Lisa and Marcus were starting to emit tell-tale snorts of supressed merriment.

"To my email," Mr O'Dowd said with considerable exasperation.

"Oh." Thea had the grace to blush slightly. "And what's your email address?"

It seemed to take all of her English teacher's self-control not to face palm himself.

"You've got my email address," he said with forced patience. "Just reply to any of the emails I've sent to your student email account."

"My what?"

Her friends' laughter was now past all concealment.

"You two," Mr O'Dowd sighed, "when you've pulled yourself together, can you show Thea how to log into her email? I thought you young people are supposed

to be technology savvy."

Thea followed her much amused friends into the hallway.

"Stop it," she snapped as soon as the door had fallen shut behind them.

"For someone who's practically a genius, you're remarkably thick," Lisa giggled.

"Oh, this is strangely gratifying," Marcus added, wiping his eyes.

"How was I supposed to know?" Thea exclaimed. "No one told me."

"Student email is a universal phenomenon," Lisa said. "Explaining it is almost as patronising as explaining that you're expected to wear pants to school."

"Patronise me," Thea said darkly.

()

"So," Marcus sat Thea down in front of a free computer and opened the school's website. "Click here, where it says _Student Log In_. Put in your last name, full

stop, initials."

Thea sighed and obediently typed into the empty field.

"Your password's the last six digits of your student I.D. number," Marcus continued. "You can change it if you can be bothered, but it doesn't really matter."

"What's the C stand for?" Lisa asked from her reclined position on the floor.

"Cathleen. So, that's all?"

"That's such a nanna's name," Lisa grinned.

"Yes, that's all." Marcus shook his head in continued bemusement. "As it is at all schools, colleges and universities in the civilised world."

Thea snapped her head up so suddenly and severely, Marcus actually jerked back in his chair a little.

"Is it the same always?" she asked.

"What?" he asked.

"This student email malarkey," said Thea. "Same deal everywhere? Last-name-dot-initials etc?"

"Malarkey!" Lisa howled with renewed glee. "You _are_ a nanna!"

"Shut it, young lady," Thea snapped with a wide smile.

"Yes, it's pretty much always the same," Marcus answered her question. "Why?"

"No reason."

"Come one then, Nan," Lisa peeled herself off the floor. "I'll help you across the road so we can get some lunch."

"Thanks, dearie…"

()

When Thea got home the men replacing the living room windows were just leaving. They were in an excellent mood, no surprise, considering yesterday's gas

explosion across the road was probably making them a mint. Thea had already been on her way to school when the windows exploded and had suffered a mild

heart attack when she came home in the afternoon; but now the room looked almost back to normal.

Her father and John were out – Thea assumed it had to do with just that gas explosion but she knew her questions would be ignored as usual – and Mrs

Hudson was up to her elbows in cleaning up the mess downstairs. Nonetheless, Thea decided to barricade herself in her room with John's laptop rather than

her own. For all she knew every word she typed on hers was transmitted in real time to her uncle's office, so she didn't like to use it for anything other than

homework.

The Cambridge website had a student log in very near identical to that of her school. However, they didn't just use the last name/initial as usernames, they

wanted the student I.D. numbers also.

Thea got Agnes Tremaine's student I.D. out of her wallet and typed the digits very slowly and deliberately. She didn't hold out much hope for the last six digits

of the student I.D. number, considering it was also the username, but put them into the password field anyway. Sure enough, access was denied. However, it

was only on grounds of incorrect password, nothing about the account itself being expired. The internet never forgets, Thea smiled to herself.

To work then.

 _Genome_. No.

 _Helix_. Not so.

Hm. _Sherlock_. Nope.

 _110877_ – Agnes's birthday, courtesy of the student I.D. but also not it.

 _Genetics – Chromosome – Nucleotide – Mendel_. No cigar.

Thea went downstairs, made a cup of tea and reviewed the very limited information available to her. Agnes had been a student of genetics. She'd agreed to

have a child for scientific purposes. She'd died – but that was unlikely to have affected her password, as it had been an unexpected death. Parents' or siblings'

names and or birthdays, which were always worth a try, were not in Thea's data banks. Pets, favourite songs, authors, shoe size, colour preferences – all

unknown.

She twirled the student I.D. between her fingers. The surprise at her uncle's gift had still not worn off. Mycroft had never in living memory given her a gift and

she was strangely touched at how much thought he'd put into it. He'd been right when he'd said it wasn't a flattering picture; and Mycroft could have gotten

any picture of Agnes, Thea was sure. But he'd chosen not just a picture but an item bearing a picture, an item Agnes would have had on her person almost

constantly, something she'd handled. A part of her life. It was horrifically sentimental….

Thea stopped fidgeting and stared at the I.D. Her uncle was not prone to sentiment. Ever. Nothing he ever did was done for sentimental reasons and it would

have been probably marginally more difficult to obtain the student I.D. than it would have been for a regular photograph. Had the intent only been to give Thea

a keepsake, a normal photo would have sufficed. Therefore...Thea could almost hear her uncle prompting…therefore this gift had deeper intent. Like providing

her with the student I.D. number she just happened to need to do some research. Huh.

Thea tapped the I.D. against her teacup. Uncle Mycroft. Fancy that.

Actually, now that she thought of it, he'd given her two gifts. Not only had he supplied visual stimulus, he'd also volunteered Agnes' love of cherries. Random.

But her uncle was not random. Not. Ever.

Thea sprinted up the stairs, leaving her cup behind.

()

She slammed the door shut, locked it and bent over the laptop.

 _Cherries._ Not it.

 _Morello_. No.

 _Pandora_. Nein.

 _Prunus Avium_.

Well, holy snapping arseholes.

Thea stared at the computer screen, which was now displaying a perfectly ordinary looking email inbox. A weakness for cherries indeed.

Not willing to waste any more time, Thea typed _holmes_. _ws_ in the small search window above the row of received mail and was rewarded with a neat list of

correspondence. She sat and stared for a while. None of them had subject headings, which was fair enough, her father hardly bothered to say good morning to

people he lived with, entering a subject heading to a self-explanatory email was likely to appear to him as a total waste of time as well.

Randomly, Thea clicked to open.

From  
To _  
_Not necessary.

Well. That was certainly completely useless. Perhaps it would be best to start from the beginning.

From _  
_To _  
_ **07/04/98**  
 **Bullseye!**

From _  
_To  
07/04/98  
Outstanding.

 **20/05/98**  
 **1st scan 11/06 at 11.45 am.**  
 **Attend?**

20/05/98  
Not necessary.

 **20/05/98**  
 **Until scan – no discussion of project with third parties.**  
 **That includes your parents.**

21/05/98  
Understood.

23/05/98  
When does one tell one's parents?

 **24/05/98**  
 **Under more normal circumstances, immediately.**  
 **In this case 12 weeks gestation seems reasonable.**

25/05/98  
Is it compulsory?

 **26/05/98**  
 **Don't be a cock.**

Thea laughed out loud, clamping her hand over her mouth instinctively.

11/06/98  
How is the specimen?

 **11/06/98**  
 **Intact.**

11/06/98  
And the host?

 **11/06/98**  
 **Quite thrilled, actually.**  
 **Top secrecy is lifted.**

12/06/98  
Female or male specimen?

 **13/06/98**  
 **Too soon to tell.**  
 **Will inquire next time.**

 **27/07/98**  
 **2nd scan 06/08 9.15 am**

29/07/98  
May I attend?

 **02/08/98**  
 **You may. Phil is attending also.**

 **02/08/98**  
 **Meet outside 9.00 am**

 **02/08/98**  
 **Bring coffee.**

03/08/98  
Caffeine is banned.

 **03/08/98**  
 **Bring coffee or you'll be banned.**

 **07/08/98  
Eliza**  
 **Annabelle**  
 **Valery**  
 **Louise**  
 **Caitlin**  
 **Florence**

08/08/98  
These are all a bit dull.

 **09/08/98**  
 **What standards are we applying here?**  
 **We're not going down the road of Mycrofts and**  
 **Sherlocks.**  
 **Have you told your parents yet?**

11/08/98  
A majestic project requires a majestic name.

 **11/08/98**  
 **Her current majesty is called Elizabeth.**

11/08/98  
Out of the question.

 **13/08/98**  
 **Have you told your parents?**

15/08/98  
Artemis.

 **16/08/98**  
 **You are jesting.  
Have you told your parents?**

17/08/98  
Euphrosyne  
Calliope  
Hera

 **18/08/98**  
 **Abandon Greek mythology and tell your parents.**

22/08/98  
Expect a ridiculous phone call.

 **23/08/98**  
 **They are coming for tea on Saturday.**  
 **Be there.**

23/08/98  
Working.

 **24/08/98**  
 **BE THERE**

 **25/08/98**  
 **Tomorrow. 4 pm.**  
 **Scones.**

28/08/98  
How was it?

 **31/08/98**  
 **Ask your mother.**

03/09/98  
Terpsichore

 **05/09/98**  
 **No.**  
 **Elowen (Phil's suggestion)**

21/09/98  
I'm back.

 **22/09/98**  
 **How was it?**

22/09/98  
Horrid.  
How's spawn?

 **22/09/98**  
 **Fluttersome.**

 **09/11/98**  
 **If you are getting cold feet, just say so.**

Thea was vaguely aware of commotion downstairs, some thumping on the steps, voices drifting upwards. She felt like she'd been running. While she was a little disappointed by the lack of depth in her parents' correspondence, it was not entirely surprising. They would have seen each other around campus in all likelihood, at least Thea assumed, so they had probably hashed out the nitty gritty of Project Progeny in person.

 **12/11/98**  
 **Holmes, stop avoiding me.**

 **14/11/98**  
 **Chicken.**  
 **Do you want to be present during delivery?**

 **15/11/98**  
 **I have to fill in the paperwork.**  
 **Do you or do you not want to be present at delivery?**

15/11/98  
I doubt I will be useful

 **16/11/98**  
 **I agree.**  
 **However, Phil is going to be there to be useful.**  
 **You can just be there and be curious.**

16/11/98  
Would my presence distract you?

 **16/11/98**  
 **Not if you keep your mouth shut.**  
 **Go on. It'll be gory.**

17/11/98  
Alright

 **17/11/98**  
 **Alright.**

 **29/11/98**  
 **Hospital is being difficult.**  
 **Phil is furious.**

29/11/98  
About delivery attendance?

 **29/11/98**  
 **Obviously.**

30/11/98  
Try them again.  
You'll find them more agreeable.

 **1/12/98**  
 **Mycroft's doing?**

2/12/98  
Was he effective?

 **2/12/98**  
 **MOST effective.**

 **3/12/98**  
 **Thank you.**  
 **Also to Mycroft.**

4/12/98  
His pleasure

 **24/12/98**  
 **Merry Christmas, Sherlock.**

24/12/98  
Seriously?

 **25/12/98**  
 **Better get used to it, children tend to like Christmas.**

25/12/12  
Merry Christmas to spawn.

 **26/12/98**  
 **Can overconsumption of Christmas pudding**  
 **bring on early labour?**

26/12/98  
No.

28/12/98  
Alitheia.

 **29/12/98**  
 **Go on…**

29/12/98  
It means 'truth'.

 **29/12/98**  
 **Greek again?**

29/12/98  
Contain your prejudice.

 **30/12/98**  
 **Are you open to alternative spelling?**

 **30/12/98**  
 **And middle names?**

30/12/98  
I suppose

 **31/12/98**  
 **Alethea Cathleen**

31/12/98  
Pure truth

 **31/12/98**  
 **Do you like it?**

31/12/98  
Very much

 **31/12/98**  
 **Happy New Year**

01/01/99  
And to you

 **05/01/99**  
 **I'm giving Phil your number in case of emergency.  
That means: Answer the phone even if it's an unknown caller.  
Do you understand?**

05/01/99  
Understood.

 **07/01/99  
Well done.**

07/01/99  
No more drills.

 **08/01/99**  
 **No more drills.**

There was no more.

Thea knew that three weeks after the last email, over two weeks past the due date, Agnes had been induced, had reacted very unfavourably to the

medications, undergone an emergency caesarean and died of a haemorrhage a little over two hours later.

But before that Agnes had drunk coffee, eaten Christmas pudding, written emails, deftly dealt with the father of her unborn child and eaten scones with Thea's

grandparents on at least one occasion. She'd been excited to be pregnant and was choosing names and thinking about spellings. Agnes Tremaine had had

good days and bad days and indigestion and a friend or maybe a brother or possibly a doctor named Phil. Whatever his relationship to Agnes had been, they

had to have been close – Thea leaned back and tapped her fingertips lightly together – close enough for Phil to be present at the birth. Which made Phil, as

they benignly termed it in the business of espionage, a person of interest. Of extremely interesting interest indeed.


	21. The Jar-Baby

Thea was turning over the wrist watch Mycroft had handed her with fierce concentration. An urgent call he absolutely had to take had bought her some time;

however, this was likely to heighten his expectations.

It was a watch meant for a child, cheap, with a picture of Buzz Lightyear and rockets for dials. It was scratched and had stopped, presumably quite some time

ago. The band had been replaced – usually these things had short plastic straps to fit a kid's wrist, but this one had long, light blue leather straps. The outside

of the straps was pretty grimy, but the inside was immaculate apart from some slight sweat stains.

"Put him through to me the instance he gets in touch," she heard her uncle's voice drifting in from the hallway. A moment later he was back, taking the seat

opposite her.

"Begin."

"May I ask just one question?" Thea asked.

Mycroft sighed but nodded his head ever so slightly.

"Why do you have Helen Gregorson's watch?"

Oh, the satisfaction. Mycroft Holmes was not in the habit of looking surprised but when he did, and he certainly did now, it was very hard to supress the urge

to scream 'Boom! In your face!' and refrain from collapsing in hysterics. Her uncle regained his composure as quickly as he'd let it slip.

"Explain," he said.

"You see," Thea began, keeping her tone even, attempting not to let her elation show, "this is obviously a child's watch and it's about five years old, that's

when the last Toy Story came out, so I assume it was bought around that time. But it hasn't been worn by a child in years, the strap is for an adult and it's dirty

on the outside but pretty clean on the inside, so the adult who's been wearing it rarely took it off if ever. It's not working and the batteries have never been

replaced, because there's no marks on the twisty bit you need to open with a screwdriver to get off the back. Now. If an adult has been wearing this watch but

not used it to actually tell the time, this suggests it is a keep sake – but not just any keep sake, otherwise it might have been kept somewhere like the

jewellery box or something rather than being on someone's person the whole time. The wrist band is blue, so balance of probability suggests the child it

commemorates is a boy, as does the space man; but it also means it's more likely that the mother wore the watch rather than the father, because men,

usually, have black or brown bands on their watches."

She looked at her uncle expectantly.

"And?" he prompted.

"William Gregorson," Thea announced. "He disappeared during lunch break at school about three years ago and everyone went mad with stranger danger

talks, we had three sets of officers come and talk to us in class that year. And his mother jumped off a bridge last week. It was on the news. So actually my

question should have been, why you have William Gregorson's watch."

She could no longer hide her triumphant grin, even though it seemed a little macabre considering the whole tragedy and so on.

Mycroft nodded appreciatively.

"Very nicely done," he said.

"Thank you," Thea said modestly.

"Well," her uncle clapped his hands together and leaned forward in his chair. "Credit where credit is due. Two straight answers for you."

"Who went to Agnes Tremaine's funeral?" Thea asked.

"What could it possibly matter?" Mycroft asked sharply. "This is a wasteful inquiry and the answer will gain you nothing. Would you like a chance to

reconsider?"

"No."

It was, in fact, a question Thea had crafted carefully over the last two weeks and it was sure to provide her with a plethora of new information. Did Agnes have

many friends? A large family? Were they perhaps estranged? Had her father attended? All these questions wrapped into one neat package. Judging from her

uncle's reaction he was well aware of this.

He closed his eyes for a moment, looking to all the world like a man praying for strength.

"Your father and myself," he said, as though every word was causing him agony. "Her supervising professor, a Dr Smythe I believe, and her partner. Philippa

Greene."

Thea sat perfectly still, attempting to digest this information. The rules of engagement dictated that Mycroft was not permitted to lie or even omit pertinent

information. There was no question whether or not he was telling the truth, but it was not at all what Thea had expected. She didn't know what she had

expected exactly, but this was definitely not it.

Philippa. Of course – why not? There she'd been driving herself insane scouring Agnes' emails for correspondence from a Philip, going through student

enrolment lists and all – when she should have been looking for Philippa all along.

"When you say partner," Thea said slowly, "do you mean girlfriend?"

"Yes, Alethea," her uncle said with a distinct edge. "That is what I mean. Her lover."

"Holy _fuck_ ," Thea blurted.

"Language."

"Where does she live now?" Thea asked, ignoring his interjection. "Philippa Greene, I mean."

"None of your business," Mycroft said firmly.

"Be that as it may," she shot back, "you have to tell me because I get two straight answers, you said so."

"And you did." He smirked in a self-satisfied way that made her want to kick his shins. "The funeral attendees and the clarification as to Miss Greene's

relationship with Miss Tremaine."

"Oh, you utter-" Thea stopped herself when he gave her a rather warning stare.

"This is why one should think before one speaks," her uncle said smugly.

"You could always just tell me anyway," Thea said in her most dulcet tones.

"And then what?" Mycroft looked no longer smug. "You would seek her out and then what? What would you tell her? More importantly, what would you expect

her to tell you? What is the point of this sudden obsession, Alethea?"

"I'm curious," she said.

"That is the cause, not the point," her uncle said tersely.

"The point," Thea made herself meet his piercing eyes, "is to know what she was like."

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose.

"And you did give me access to her email, in a way," Thea reminded him. "So you have to see the point, even if you think it's somehow prudent to pretend you

don't."

Her uncle pursed his lips ever so slightly.

"I was unaware I was opening Pandora's box," he said. "And no matter how much information you compile, the state of affairs will remain fundamentally

unaltered. My intention was to affirm what information you already possess, not to send you off on an idiotic quest for more."

"How is wanting to know more about my mother idiotic?" Thea asked hotly.

"Your mother."

"Yes, my mother!" Thea was contemplating hurling her shoe at her uncle's head. "That's what she is. My mother. And don't you start with that appropriate

terminology lecture now, because the person whose body you have grown in is per definition your mother. Or birth-mother, if you want to be completely anal,

though that term suggests that a different mother figure is actually present, which is not the case here. Therefore," she eyeballed Mycroft furiously, "she is my

mother."

"Have you spoken to your father about this?" her uncle asked quietly.

"He's been distracted."

"That's never stopped you before."

"Exceedingly distracted."

"You know he won't approve, so you have not brought it up," Mycroft stated.

"He's in no position to approve or disapprove. I can investigate if I want." Thea crossed her arms over her chest. "If you feel the need to inform him, knock

yourself out. It's not changing a thing."

"I presume advising you to drop the subject would be futile?"

"You presume correctly."

"Ignorance can be bliss."

Thea glared at her uncle with lethal venom.

"You didn't just say that," she spat. " _You_ of all people? And anyway, considering I was conceived as a science project, how many shocking revelations are left,

realistically?"

"Does it bother you?"

Mycroft's sudden change of tone threw her.

"What?"

"The circumstance of your conception."

Thea thought about this for a moment.

"Not particularly," she admitted.

"Why not?"

"Because it's…I don't know…" The bastard, she'd been so firmly on her feet and now she was fumbling. "It doesn't bother me any more than the fact that the

earth is round."

"Interesting analogy."

"It's an accepted fact," Thea attempted to clarify. "I have always known. It might bother me if I found out now, maybe. But it's just the story of the 'Jar-Baby'."

Mycroft eyed her curiously.

"The _Jar-Baby_?"

To her immense irritation, Thea could feel herself blushing.

"You've peaked my interest," her uncle said. "Don't deprive me."

Thea set her jaw.

"I propose an exchange," she said.

"Yes?"

"I'll tell you the story of the jar-baby, if you give me Philippa Greene's phone number."

"I shouldn't think so."

"Fine." Thea leaned back into the sofa. "I'll find out anyway, you know. Either I call all P. Greenes in the phone book or I'll make you tell me next time I win a

straight answer."

Being check-mated was not a sensation Mycroft Holmes was accustomed to and he did not bother to hide his distaste.

"Very well," he said.

"Do you need to make a phone call?"

"No."

"You've got her current contact details on file?" Thea asked incredulously.

"One keeps tabs," Mycroft dead-panned. "Now, I believe you have a story to tell?"

Thea took a deep breath and began:

()

"Once upon a time there were a lot of questions, who lived and grazed on the wide open field of genetics. Some were big and some were small and no two of

them were really alike, but all of them held grand promise. The thing with questions, of course, is that a question can never be truly happy unless it is matched

with an answer; and while the questions were content enough frolicking about the field, playing cards and eating sweet flowers, they all felt a little sad

whenever they greeted another night in unanswered solitude…"

()

"You simply cannot be serious," Mycroft interrupted. "Is this my brother's idea of a _bedtime story_?"

"I used to beg him for it," Thea admitted. "I always felt really bad for the questions. Do you want me to go on or not?"

"By all means."

()

"It happened that the field of genetics was part of a kingdom presided over by more kings and queens than you could care to count. Each of them had a castle

and a throne and big, sprawling dungeons filled with laboratories overflowing with experiments attempting to find answers for all the lonely questions. Every

time the kings and queens found a new answer, they would parade it proudly to the pasture, with brass bands and confetti, and to be presented to the

question in front of a raucous audience of subjects. Sometimes the question would be pleased and go off with the answer to live in the mountains of accepted

facts surrounding the field. But other times, the question would take one look at the answer, unhinge its jaws and swallow it in one gulp. Every time that

happened, the question would become a little bigger and a little more unruly; so the kings and queens would take great care not to present incorrect answers.

It was considered a shameful thing to have your answer become part of the question.

It just so happened, that the kingdom was by the sea and in the sea there was anchored a small man-made island. It was patched together from left over

experimental materials that had been thrown out of the dungeons and glowed in the dark. All day and all night one could hear small explosions coming from

the little island, for on the island lived a mad scientist, who wanted to answer some of the big questions, too. He tried and tried but mostly he just blew things

up.

The thing was, of course, that the answering of questions was the sport of kings and queens, so the mad scientist had no hope of ever even crossing path

with one of the really big juicy questions. He knew this, of course, and it was driving him madder still.

However, one day the mad scientist had an unexpected visitor. A princess from the mainland came rowing to his island in a small folded paper boat, waving a

white flag so he wouldn't fire one of his crazy creations at her. The princess, who was working in one of the biggest laboratory dungeons in the kingdom, was

in desperate need of help. She had worked out how to answer many small and some big questions – but to really do so she needed something, one magical

thing, that no one on the mainland wanted to help her create. In order to match the sad questions with their answers, the princess needed a jar-baby.

Jar-babies were rare, gem-like creatures, small and orange and perfectly curled like shrimp. The wonderful thing about jar-babies was that they could answer

questions without even trying to. Just by observing a jar-baby, one could read answers, just by watching it live. Jar-babies glowed and sparkled with purpose

and in time would grow into fantastical, incandescent entities because they never had to wonder why they were in the world. They were in the world to

answer questions and their purpose was fulfilled by merely being.

To obtain a jar-baby, two people with a lot of nerve had to face a great many monsters and devote a great deal of time and energy to care for it. The princess

wanted a jar-baby very badly, but all of the princes and kings and shepherds on the mainland were too dull and frightened to even consider helping her make

one. So she sought out the mad scientist instead, hoping that his deep need to answer questions would match hers.

As it happened, the mad scientist was entranced by the idea.

So together they set off to the other end of the ocean, harpooning and shanking sea monsters all along the way, to obtain the large jar made of magic glass in

which to mix together their jar-baby. They towed it back towards the island, taking turns rowing and sleeping, although the princess needed rather more sleep

than the mad scientist.

When they returned to the island they filled the jar with hope, dreams, fears and the best and worst of each of them – before they called onto the east wind to

whirl the jar in a mighty tornado to make sure the ingredients were perfectly mixed."

()

"They called onto the east wind?" Mycroft asked. "Are you certain?"

"Yes…" Thea looked at him with a surprised smirk. "Though obviously no one called on anything, it's just a story. Are you enthralled, uncle?"

"Don't be preposterous," he scoffed. "I was merely curious as to the reliability of your narration."

"It's word perfect," Thea said haughtily. "Now, where was I?"

"The east wind, I believe." Mycroft settled back into his chair.

()

"Right.

The east wind whipped up and almighty twister and spun their jar of ingredients wildly across the face of the ocean. The jar was soon filled with shining purple

liquid, which would soon solidify into the beginnings of the baby – and the princess whooped and jumped and raised her fists in triumph.

Alas, they had not reckoned on the east wind's evil streak.

You see, the east wind could simply not bear it to see anyone happier than itself. So when it saw just how delighted the princess was, it decided to teach her a

lesson. With all its might, the east wind brought the jar plummeting towards the little island and the princess, terrified that the glass might smash on the shore,

spilling her jar-baby into the ocean, jumped forward with a tremendous leap to save it. She caught the jar in her open arms but the velocity was simply too

great.

The princess, her body wrapped around the jar-baby, hit the rocks with such force it broke her insides wide open. As the life bled out of her, she beckoned the

mad scientist to come closer and with the last of her strength handed him the jar-baby.

For many days following the princess' death, the mad scientist stood on the shore, the jar in his hands, gazing towards the mainland. Without the princess he

had no way of gaining access to the kingdom and all of the answers the jar-baby would provide were fated to go to waste.

On the tenth day of his vigil, the jar-baby stirred in its liquid home and opened its eyes. When it looked at him, the mad scientist saw in its deep dark irises a

stream of questions, fluttering and twisting like butterflies, waiting to be released and answered. It was then that the mad scientist knew that the questions

over in the pastures of the kingdom were of no consequence – they were old questions and would soon be dead or answered by the kings and queens. What

he had on his little island was infinitely more interesting. New questions and no one to seek the answers but himself and the jar-baby."

()

"That's the end?" Mycroft asked a while after Thea had fallen silent.

"It is," she said. "Are you smiling?"

"I fear I might be," her uncle admitted. "It's abominably…sweet."

"I know," Thea grinned. "Now cough up."

"Excuse me?"

"Phone number," Thea said and at her uncle's hesitation added, "We were agreed."

Heaving the sigh of the world-weary, Mycroft produced a pen and notepad from the inside of his suit jacket and wrote down a mobile number. He tore the page

from the notepad and held it out to Thea. She reached for it almost greedily and for a moment her uncle seemed reluctant to let the paper go.

"Will you do me one favour?" he asked.

"Possibly…" she kept her eyes on the paper, forcing herself not to actually snatch it.

"Try not to get lost on the mainland," said Mycroft.


	22. Drills

John had intended to make himself some toast but the spectacle in the living room proved increasingly distracting and he found himself seated at the table,

watching in rapt fascination.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, legs crossed, hands steepled under his chin, looking at the wall. Thea strolled into the room, stopped abruptly, crossed her

arms and snapped:

"What are you sitting like that for?"

"How am I sitting, pray tell?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Like some bloody moron daydreaming!" Thea shouted. "You're just-" she emitted a groan of uncontainable annoyance "-I can't even stand to look at you! I'm

off!"

She stormed from the room. Sherlock did not move a muscle. A moment later Thea returned.

"Good afternoon, father."

"How was your day?" Sherlock asked.

"Adequately pleasant." Thea took a seat on the sofa. "Your own?"

"Trying."

"Shall I make you a cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely."

Thea got up and left the room. Sherlock maintained his position. Seconds later, Thea was back. This time, she did not actually enter the room but lingered

nervously in the doorway.

"Hi…" she said timidly.

"You have some nerve," her father snarled.

"I'm really sorry…" Thea was wringing her hands now. "Time just sort of got a-"

"Your room. Now." Even John shivered at the ice in Sherlock's voice.

Thea scrambled out of sight, only to re-appear two heart-beats later.

"You're home!" she cheered, sped across the room and dumped herself on her father's lap, wrapping her arms around him.

John furrowed his brow as much at the unfamiliar sight of the Holmes' cuddling as at the strangeness of the game they were clearly playing. Thea had been

exiting and entering the room for the past twenty minutes, returning in a different mode of operation each time; while Sherlock had, reactions aside, sat still as

a statue.

"What-" John began and both Holmes' startled in Sherlock's chair. Clearly his presence came as a surprise to them, although he had been far from stealthy.

"Where'd you come from?" Thea asked with genuine curiosity.

"I've been here for the last half hour," John pointed out. "Since before you two started…this. What are you doing?"

"Running drills," said Thea.

John cocked his head slightly.

"You've been in the military," Sherlock said lazily, "you know how drills work."

"Yes, I do," John agreed. "And I've gathered that Thea comes in as a new version of herself every time-"

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"-what I fail to see," John continued unperturbed, "is the challenge. Neither of you has trouble being in character, so what's to practise?"

"Really?" Thea frowned at him. "Are you joking? Is he joking?"

"You're usually much better at telling that sort of thing," her father admitted, studying John with a matching frown. "Are you joking, John?"

"No." John could feel himself getting a little annoyed.

"The challenge," Sherlock said very slowly, which didn't help John's levels of annoyance at all, "is for Alethea to know what scenario is required. Obviously."

"But she just walks in and starts," John said, matching his friend's slow tone perfectly. "You're the one reacting."

"Really?" Thea asked again, but her frown was slowly being replaced by a sly smile. "Am I that good?"

Her father sighed and gave John a sour look.

"Thank you for inflating her already monstrous ego even further," he said curtly. "And no, child, you're not that good, John is being remarkably thick."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock's next sigh was decidedly world-weary.

"She is the one reacting," he said. "I provide agreed upon prompts as she enters the room and she takes it from there. It's a game, really. But it has proved

exceedingly practical when dealing with unannounced visitors."

"But you just sit there," John insisted. "You didn't even move your hands, you didn't look at her, nothing. You're not giving any signals."

"Come _on_!" Thea looked at John with complete puzzlement. "He is fairly screaming prompts at me."

"You're messing with me," John said decisively. "You're both bored and you've decided to wind me up."

"Yes, because that's such a challenge…" Thea muttered.

"Don't be rude to the philistine," her father admonished. "Would you care for some proof, doubting Thomas?"

John smirked.

"Sure," he said.

"Alethea. Out." Sherlock waved his hand as though to shoo a particularly pesky fly and Thea skedaddled. "Right," Sherlock turned to John, his voice low enough

to be inaudible out on the landing. "What would you like to happen when she returns?"

"Anything?" John asked.

"Within reason."

John thought for a moment.

"Prompt her to ask you for money."

"Oh, dull – but very well."

Sherlock rearranged his limbs. Legs crossed, fingertips together, eyes on the wall.

"You call her in," he instructed John. "Lest you accuse me of giving her a verbal cue."

"Fair enough." John focussed his gaze on Sherlock's seated form. "Thea! You can come back in."

Steps patted up the stairs and Thea strode into the room.

"Can I have five quid?" she asked as soon as she was across the threshold.

John's jaw dropped slightly.

"You overheard," he said after a moment.

"Piss off!" Thea exclaimed in convincing outrage. "I did no such thing!"

"You must have. No way otherwise, you didn't even stop long enough to get any prompt!"

"You just-"

"Calm," Sherlock interrupted his daughter's chip-spitting. "Out."

Thea stomped from the room, not without shooting John another outraged stare. Sherlock nodded towards a mess of papers on the kitchen table.

"Got a pen?" he asked. "Write down what you want her to do when she comes back in."

John located a pen hiding amongst a collecting of small bones in a jar and wrote _Crying because she saw a dog get hit by a car on the way home_ in the margin of

one of the papers.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and nodded appreciatively.

"That's more like it," he said.

John waited until Sherlock had rearranged himself in the chair, noting that his hands were now on the arms of the chair rather than under his chin, but it

seemed unlikely that the whole of his request could be conveyed in just that.

"Thea!" John called.

Thea appeared in the doorway and looked almost immediately forlorn. By the time she'd made it to the sofa, her bottom lip was quivering.

"Hey," she said, her voice cracking slightly, dropping down on the sofa in apparently abject misery.

"Oh, hello," Sherlock said cautiously, turning to look at her. "What's wrong, darling?"

In response, Thea dissolved into dramatic tears and deep, shuddering sobs.

"Jesus, sweetheart," Sherlock was out of his chair now and crouching beside the couch. "What's got you so upset?"

"It- they –" Thea sobbed. "They drove right over it…"

"Bloody unbelievable!" John shouted before he could help himself.

"Shut up, John," Sherlock snapped. "Can't you see, she's beside herself? Who drove right over what, sweetie?"

"The van," Thea howled. "It just smashed right into the cat-"

Her father's eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly and Thea's sobbing increased into full blown hysteria.

"I mean-" she hiccupped, "I meant the dog…but it was small…it was no bigger than a cat…and then it was all mushed into the road with its guts hanging out

and…and…"

"Oh, skip it," Sherlock growled and her tears dried up instantly.

"Cat, dog, polar bear," Thea grumbled. "What difference does it make?"

"You not taking your time makes the difference," her father said sternly. "You have to be certain. Charging ahead before you are certain does not achieve

anything."

"I was-"

"You were trying to impress John," Sherlock interrupted. "Which you doubtlessly would have done, had you paid even a modicum of attention."

"I'm still impressed," John piped up from his position in the kitchen. "I'm beyond impressed, I'm dumbstruck with awe, practically. That was amazing."

"The cat indeed." Sherlock shook his head.

"Enough salt in the wound already," Thea exclaimed. "I've tarnished the family name, mea culpa, all that jazz. But maybe if you were just a little less twitchy-"

" _Twitchy_?" Her father glared at her and Thea, to her credit, held his glare without shrinking from it. "I was being ludicrously explicit, Helen Keller could have read

me."

"Helen Keller was blind _and_ deaf."

"My point exactly."

"You're crushing my fragile self-esteem," she shouted. "Discouragement and mockery are lethal to children's mental health! You know who's to blame if I start

cutting myself…"

"Drama queen."

"Did you know emotionally distant parents are the number one cause of anorexia?"

"Firstly, that's nonsense and secondly, you couldn't starve yourself if your life depended on it," Sherlock shot back. "I'm yet to meet a hungrier person than you

and that includes your fat uncle."

"Maybe that's because you never feed me!"

"You're eleven years old, you're perfectly capable of opening the fridge!"

"And what good is that if all that's in it is human flesh?"

"You should thank your lucky stars I provide you with materials – when I was your age I had to fight my parents tooth and nail for every poxy frog carcass I

wanted to store."

"They're not my materials," Thea pointed out. "They're yours. And your parents probably took issue because their fridge contained actual food."

Sherlock stomped into the kitchen, past John, who was enjoying their domestic almost as much as the previous performance. When the Holmes' got going, they

became strangely oblivious to their surroundings and John was quite aware he'd become as good as invisible again. There was something almost touchingly

harmonious about the way father and daughter became absorbed in each other, John thought, even if it was in the throes of an argument.

Sherlock wrenched the fridge open.

"Open your eyes!" he shouted, waving his hand plaintively at the fridge's contents – a bowl of fingers, an ear on a saucer, a six pack of lager, half a

watermelon and some yoghurt containers. "Food aplenty!"

"That yoghurt is off," Thea yelled. "It's been in there since the social worker came over – it's weeks old. Are you trying to kill me?"

"So eat some melon!"

"I thought that was for an experiment." Thea sounded genuinely surprised.

"What kind of experiment could possibly call for watermelon?" Her father looked at her in disbelief. "Why did you get watermelon of all things?" she asked. "You

don't even eat…fruit. And why did you get so much of it?"

"I didn't," Sherlock groaned in terminal exasperation. "Molly Hooper gave it to me."

"Why?" Thea was now in the kitchen as well, climbing a chair and looking utterly bewildered.

"I don't know," he admitted. "She was adamant I take it. It was odd and confusing and I didn't care for it. Do you like watermelon?"

"I suppose."

Sherlock removed the hefty fruit from the fridge, removed the cling wrap, set the melon on the table in front of Thea and stuck a table spoon in it like an

astronaut claiming a planet for his nation.

"Bon apetit."

"Merci bien…" Thea levered out a chunk and chewed cautiously. "Oh, nice."

Sherlock sank on the last free chair, looking a little worse for wear.

"You aggravate me beyond reason," he told his daughter.

"It's good for you – frequent aggravation is the number one prophylaxis for Alzheimer's disease. You'll thank me one day." Thea was quite engaged in her

battle with the watermelon now, making short work of disembowelling it. "Also, thank Miss Hooper for the melon next time."

"Yes, mother…" Sherlock rolled his eyes luxuriously.

"Don't take that tone," Thea scolded. "Now sit up properly and eat your melon or I'll be forced to confiscate those fingers of yours." She nodded towards the

fridge with a supremely prim expression.

"You keep your hands off those fingers, Alethea."

"Won't lay a finger on them."

Sherlock cringed.

"What are they for anyway?" Thea asked.

"Testing methods of fingerprint eradication."

"Ooooh…can I do some?"

"You may have three of them," Sherlock said. "On the condition you return them with appropriate notes on your processes."

"Is the aim to eradicate the fingerprint entirely or to alter it beyond identification?" Thea sucked some watermelon juice off the front of her jumper.

"Either will be fine but thank you for asking an intelligent question." Sherlock pulled a face at his daughter's delighted smile. "Was that positive reinforcement

enough to keep you from self-harm?"

"For now," Thea said.

"You two are bizarre," John said into the ensuing silence and, again, both Thea and Sherlock jumped at the sound of his voice.

"Are you _still_ here?" Sherlock asked.

"Obviously." Thea rolled her eyes. "Would you like some melon, John?"

"Sure."

"He calls you bizarre and you offer to share your scarce rations with him?"

"Actually," Thea said calmly, "he called us both bizarre. And I think this melon might be laced with something funny… did you annoy Miss Hooper again?"

"What?" John asked, only to be comprehensively ignored once more.

"Not that I can recall." Sherlock sniffed the watermelon curiously. "What do you think it is?"

"I've got my money on serotonergic psychedelics…" Thea was smiling happily. "Then again, I might just be tired. Or allergic to watermelon. Am I allergic?"

"Not that I'm aware." Her father was picking chunks of watermelon out and popping them into petri dishes.

"Excuse me-" John started.

"Have some, John!" Thea commanded. "We'll need a second test subject."

"May I suggest you stop eating now?" Sherlock snatched the spoon from her hand. "At least until we know if you're onto something?"

"Oh, but it's so, so, so tasty…" Thea shoved another hunk of melon into her mouth. "And I've got shocking dry mouth…whoops…" Her elbow slid off the edge of

the table and she almost went under before steadying herself. "Oh dear me, my vision's gone all blurry."

"Stop it," her father moved the melon out of reach. "I'll need what little you've left us for ana-"

"Sod your analysis!" John shouted. "If this child's just eaten the better part of a melon laced with LSD, you want to be thinking more about an ambulance!"

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock scoffed. "They'd arrest me for parental negligence."

"You-"

"Your jumper is so _bright_ ," Thea said admiringly, her head now resting on the table top. "I just want to go and live in it."

"For fuck's sake…" John grumbled, rooting for his mobile in the mess on the table. "It's like a bloody circus in here."

"Circus, there's a thought…" Thea grinned.

"Why would Molly do something this ridiculous?" John huffed, his phone now located. "It's a bit much even for the world's rudest man-"

"Said the world's most gullible man," Sherlock said drily.

John noticed he'd abandoned his samples of melon on the counter in favour of watching John.

"You what?" he asked, although realisation was dawning on him. One glance at Thea, whose hunched shoulders were beginning to fairly vibrate with

supressed laughter was all the confirmation he needed. "You utter mongrels, both of you!"

Thea completely dissolved at this, her body wracked with hysterics, and her father was not far behind.

"You're naivety is simply irresistible," Sherlock choked out. "To refrain from winding you up would be akin with living in a sweet shop and abstaining from

sugar."

"I was about to call an ambulance!"

"Thank you," Thea whimpered. "It's good to know someone cares about my survival in case there's ever an actual emergency…"

"Have you heard of that story about the boy who cried wolf?"

"Is it in the same book as the story about the doctor who thought the pathologist drugged the watermelon?" Thea asked, moving her father to bark a renewed

avalanche of merriment.

"Hilarious," John growled. "Very clever indeed."

"Clever doesn't quite apply," Sherlock wiped his eyes and pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. "Work of art, perhaps, or worthy of a doctorate in

smooth operation."

He unfolded the paper and flattened it on the table. John rounded the table and looked over his shoulder, scanning the neatly written dot points.

"How?" he asked. "How could you have possibly known I'd ask you to make her cry over a dog? _How_?"

"Once we'd peaked you interest," Thea said, leaning in and peering at the paper as well, "there were only about ten scenarios you were likely to suggest,

especially if you wanted it to be actually challenging. And you did tell us, just a few weeks ago, about the dog getting run over out the front of Tescos.

Remember? Then all we needed was a calculated mistake to argue our way to the fridge."

"You've mapped the whole thing," John gritted his teeth.

"That way we can't cheat," Sherlock explained.

"You're both ridiculous."

"Says _you_?" Sherlock grinned and pointed at the bottom of the page. _Boy who cried wolf,_ John read, _clever, ridiculous_. Idiots.

John pocketed his phone, collected his keys and went for his jacket.

"Where you going?" Sherlock asked hoarsely.

"Somewhere that's not a nuthouse," John snapped.

"A house made of nuts…" Thea gave a convincing reprise of her high-as-a-kite tone. "Man…"

John stomped down the stairs accompanied by the receding sounds of renewed hilarity and closed the door wondering how it was possible that he was not

even contemplating moving out.


	23. Reconnaisance

Thea woke to the sound of the door slamming downstairs, rolled over to blink at her alarm clock and wondered what could make her father and John storm off

at four-thirty in the morning. She rolled out of bed and padded downstairs to find a dull book to read herself back to sleep. There was a volume on

cryptography on the kitchen table, which seemed custom made for the job of boring someone back into unconsciousness.

Book under one arm and glass of water in hand, Thea was almost at the door when her eyes lit on a lonely item lying atop the mess of papers and debris

littering the desk. John had left his phone behind.

Well.

Well, well, well.

Thea sat on the edge of the desk, near enough the window to have a good view of the street in case John decided to come back for his phone and turned it

over in her hands, considering her options. It seemed like to good an opportunity to pass by.

She scrolled through John's address book until her eyes snagged on the name _Lestrade_. Just the ticket. Thea liked D.I. Lestrade, he was efficient and didn't ask

unnecessary questions, which was probably why her father enjoyed his company, although he'd have rather cut his tongue out than admit to such a thing.

 _Require address corresponding to 0778 458 538_ _asap_

Thea pressed send, deleted the message from John's log and slid off the desk. She placed the phone back in its original position and started to pace the room,

waiting. It occurred to her that she'd be entirely up the creek if Lestrade and John happened to be in one another's vicinity at the moment, which was not

entirely out of the question. The thought of the consequences was so humiliating it drew and audible groan. Why had she not thought of that two minutes

ago? Flaming bloody donkey.

Philippa Greene's number had been burning a hole in her pocket for a few weeks now. It seemed unfathomable to actually call her. Thea was unsure how much

of her reluctance was due to her uncle's questions about what exactly she expected from making contact. The problem was Thea had no idea. As there was no

data on Philippa Greene, other than her relationship with the equally unknown entity that was Agnes Tremaine, it was impossible to predict her reaction to

Thea. It was entirely likely that she would refuse to even speak with her, considering Thea presented a reminder of what most certainly had been a painful

loss. On the other hand, Philippa Greene had in all probability been willing to be a presence in Thea's life – had things worked out according to plan – she had

been poised to be one of her parents. It seemed all the more bizarre that they had never laid eyes on each other. Once Agnes had died, Philippa had faded

away; at least that was what it looked like. Thea had considered the possibility that Philippa had not left the picture on her own accord, but had been

somehow forced out. Then again, it was just as likely that she had run a mile at the prospect of participating in the project any further once the host was gone.

John's phone lay ominously silent on the desk. Lestrade could be in bed with the phone on silent. If he didn't reply before John returned, Thea would have a

whole new problem on her hands. It was a possibility to let John know that she had used his phone in an attempt to finagle some information and it was not

out of the question that he would agree to keep the matter from her father. However, it was not a given and Thea didn't want anyone knowing about her little

research project. It was bad enough that Mycroft knew; although thus far he seemed to be keeping his mouth shut. Thea was not confident this would last.

She sat down on the sofa and started flicking through the book on cryptography. It seemed a fair assumption that it had to do with the phone her father had

received as a Christmas gift. A shiny thing, most definitely belonging to a female of the species, and by all appearances password protected. Thea found it odd

that her father could be stumped by a password, but wonders never ceased, she supposed.

Indeed they did not.

At 6 am the phone buzzed, startling her out of a paragraph on Schnorr signature.

 _Greene, P. G. 23 Carmelite Rd, Harrow – ae?  
_

 _No thank you_ Thea replied, hoping that 'ae' did in fact stand for 'anything else'. _  
_

Thea deleted both messages and sat pondering the best route to take. It would take her a little over an hour to ride to Harrow, which would put her outside

Philippa Greene's front door by about 7.30 if she left as good as immediately. If Philippa was already out – who knew, she might have a job that required her to

work horrendously early or late hours – Thea could still make it to school almost on time. She was dressed, packed and out of the door eight minutes later.

()

Carmelite Road was unassuming, one brown semi-detached house following the next. By the time Thea came cruising along the street, doors were opening

and closing, releasing school children and office workers carrying their various pieces of luggage, brushing toast crumbs from the corners of their mouths'.

The lights were on inside number 23 and Thea could see a number of shapes moving behind the living room or kitchen curtain. Adult shapes, three different

people. And a shadow cat sitting on the window sill. She cycled on, turned around at the end of the road and cycled back again. It occurred to her now that this

was quite a rubbish idea. For all she knew three women lived in that house and unless they were wearing nametags, she would have no way of knowing which

one to follow. Quite apart from the fact that not one of them might be planning to leave the house for the next few hours and this was not a street on which

Thea might go unnoticed. She had perhaps another hour before the general traffic of people leaving for work and school would die down, leaving her a

conspicuous presence, screaming for attention.

For now, she leaned her bike against a little garden wall five doors down, took her paperback of _Antigone_ from her backpack and pretended to read. She was

just waiting for her friend to walk to school with. _Which school_? She could hear her father asking. _Hatch End Highschool_ , she answered smugly. Just up the road.

Perfectly plausible. Not that she expected anyone to ask, but it was always wise to have a full explanation at the ready.

At 8 am, the front door of number 23 swung open and out strolled a man in his early twenties, pushing a road bike and carrying a messenger bag. Fantastic.

Thea watched him speed away and fought a little flutter of excitement in her stomach. Her chances had just increased to a fifty-fifty success rate. Good news

indeed.

At 8.15 two women left the house, locking the door behind them. Very good. So no one was left inside. Philippa was not having a lie in. Philippa, therefore, was

one of the two ladies walking slowly around the bend towards Tudor road. Thea, deeply absorbed in her book, allowed them to pass her by, straining to hear

any snippet of conversation as they came within earshot.

"… surely not? It's a demented system, I can't find anything."

"You can always just change your own…"

Oh, useless.

Thea gave the pair a head start before slowly rolling after them. The bike seemed suddenly huge and outlandishly noticeable. However, the two women were

too engaged in their boring talk to turn around or pay any attention to anything.

Adults' ages were hard for Thea to correctly determine. They were, largely, just old. However, one of the women was clearly older than the other, Thea would

have placed her somewhere closer to forty that thirty. She had a couple of grey streaks in her dark hair and was wearing the kind of sensible heels that

indicated she worked on her feet. The other, probably no older that thirty-two, was wearing teetering pumps and a pencil skirt that screamed boring desk job.

Thea presumed that Philippa Greene was around the same age as her mother, which would put her into the difficult early thirties rage, meaning the office

worker was her mark. Then again, it was not at all out of the question that Philippa had been older – the interesting older woman…who knew.

The pair turned into Wellington Road and before too long stopped outside News Travel. They talked for another minute and the pencil skirt went inside. This

was, of course, outstanding.

Thea could now follow the other woman at her leisure, knowing her other mark was not going anywhere until at least five in the afternoon.

The other woman made her way towards the High Street and a few minutes later entered Wealdstone library. Thea rode on, found a bakery and bought a

steak pie. She ate it sitting in a bus shelter, while making some cursory notes on her surveillance thus far. The library was not due to open until 9.30, so Thea

rode back towards the travel agent, chained her bike on a lamp post out the front and walked inside.

"Can I help you?"

Thea smiled at her mark pleasantly.

"Actually," she said, "I was wondering if I could have a look at your travel catalogues? It's for a school project and I kind of have to bring some today…I forgot.

Could I check them out and maybe take some? I can bring them back after school if you want."

Her mark, who was annoyingly not wearing a name tag, smiled back.

"Go for your life," she said.

"Thanks so much."

Thea turned and faced the wall of travel catalogues, picking up a random one on India and flicking through the pages. She had about ten minutes of this before

she'd have to leave. Ten minutes to overhear a co-worker greeting the mark or something of the kind.

Three minutes into her perusal, she had now moved on to South America, a phone rang behind her.

"News Travel, Jemma speaking, how can I help you?"

Aaaaaand… that was that.

Thea stuffed South America and Finland into her backpack, turned and gave her former mark a cheerful wave on her way out. Her palms were a little sweaty as

she unlocked the bike. Unless Lestrade had given her…John… the wrong address, chances were that Philippa Greene was just beginning her work day at the

library not five minutes from here.

()

Thea took up her position in a corner by the reference shelves, spreading some papers in front of her and shoving a pen firmly between her teeth. She

collected random volumes on politics and history from the nearest shelf, opened them somewhere in the middle, bent over them and waited. The mark was

walking a trolly around, re-shelving returns. No wonder she needed comfortable shoes. The Wealdstone library was quite large. And quite nice. Thea had

always liked libraries and this one was simply delightful, with big windows and plenty of natural light and lots of little cubicle desks. A lovely place to work in.

Librarian though. It was a little cliché. Then again, cliché evolved from truth.

For an hour or so, Thea pretended to read and take notes. Once in a while the mark passed near her. She was soundless and efficient and utterly absorbed in

her task when another librarian approached.

"Excuse me, Philippa?"

It took all of Thea's willpower not to snap her head up and stare.

"Do you know where the crate of holds has got to?"

"Try upstairs," said Philippa Greene.

Thea waited until Philippa had moved away before collecting her things. Although she'd have liked nothing better than to stay and observe her, she figured it

wouldn't do her any favours to linger long enough to actually draw attention to herself. So she left and cycled home, reviewing.

Philippa Greene was tall and, while not quite heavy, definitely a person who preferred a bag of crisps to a run along the river. She lived with at least two other

people, one of whom was possibly her girlfriend, although they had neither held hands nor kissed goodbye. Jemma the travel agent could just be her flatmate,

a person she was close to and comfortable with. It didn't matter either way, not to Thea. Philippa was a librarian. Whether this was the profession she'd

dreamed of as a child or something she'd just fallen into was another matter. As it were, she worked surrounded by books and people in need of books. The

fact that the other librarian had come to her with a query suggested a certain seniority and a flair for organisation. When Thea's arrival had been imminent,

Philippa Greene had called Sherlock to test whether he would answer his phone.

()

Thea soon expanded her canon of Philippa-related knowledge.

Philippa Greene worked Sunday to Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. She entered the library at 8.30am and went home between 5 and 8 pm. Wednesdays and

Saturdays the library was closed. Philippa slept late on those days, walked down the street to the corner shop and spent some quality time with the paper and

a bag of miscellaneous pastries.

Thea forged her father's signature on a pile of tardy slips over the next two weeks, claiming flat bicycle tires, missed busses, faulty alarm clocks and horrendous

traffic. She attended imaginary doctor's appointments before class and one morning invoked a wild tale of rescuing an injured kitten from the jaws of a bulldog.

In the evenings, Philippa Greene liked to sit on rickety plastic chairs in her garden, talking with her flatmates about the state of the world. On two occasions

Thea had caught whiffs of the familiar scent she associated with Mrs Hudson's herbal soothers. On the second Tuesday night of Thea's surveillance, Philippa

went and saw _Winter's Bone_ with a group of ladies who looked as though they might also be librarians. Thea tried getting in but was denied on grounds of

being quite obviously under sixteen, so she loitered outside the cinema for the next two hours and then shadowed the group to a bar down the road, where

Philippa ordered what was likely a Gin and Tonic, smoked two cigarettes provided by one of her companions and laughed with her head thrown back at a

comment Thea could not even begin to guess.

()

It was almost midnight by the time Thea got home, chilled to the bone and starved. The thought of leftover take away propelled her towards the kitchen – but

the scene in front of the fire place stopped her dead in her tracks. In front of her father, her hand in his, knelt a woman. A woman who was looking at him with

an expression that would forever more come to mind whenever Thea heard the expression 'bedroom eyes'.

Sherlock did not appear to notice his daughter, but a subtle shift of posture and an indistinct rearrangement of the fingers on his free hand let her know that

he had – and that she should make herself scarce. Very slowly Thea retreated into the hallway and tiptoed upstairs. It didn't occur to her to disregard her

father's instructions, they were in place specifically for occasions such as this, unexpected visitors. Also, even though the lack of dinner was a little

disheartening, it meant that any questions that might have been asked about her late return – unlikely, true – were now effectively averted. If she did not ask

about the woman, Sherlock would not ask about her excursion, Thea was certain of it.

Still.

Thea could hear soft voices drifting up through the floor boards and realised, retrospectively, that the woman had been wearing one of her father's shirts and

no shoes. She had warranted the lighting of a fire and was apparently permitted to make bodily contact. Highly, highly, excessively irregular. Sherlock didn't do

women. At least as far as Thea knew…and how much did she know, really?

It was a thought that had crept in more and more as she followed Philippa Greene around. Thea knew nothing of her father's history. What she knew about his

work she learned from John's blog, which was highly amusing but seemed to be causing a bit of a stir. More than a few people in school had asked her whether

she was related to _that_ Holmes and Thea had chosen to deny all affiliation. After all, Holmes was not that unusual a name. She had decided to distance herself

not because she was embarrassed, if anything she was actually a little bit proud, but because she didn't want to be asked questions she couldn't provide

answers to.

It was time, she decided, to get some answers. Wednesday was dawning. The library was closed. Time to make a move and ask some questions…not only

about her mother, Thea realised as she lay in bed, but about the strange man downstairs as well.


	24. Philippa Greene

Ten o'clock seemed like a very reasonable time. It was late enough to allow Philippa Greene to have her coffee and baked goods, read most of her paper and

get into the swing of her day. It was also early enough to ensure that she wouldn't have gone out yet, if the previous two Wednesdays were anything to go

by.

Thea had thought about preparing questions. She had considered pretending to be raising funds for her school or selling scout cookies; wondered whether it

would be wise to gain access under an assumed identity. All of it seemed futile. If she was to ask anything of consequence, deception would not do her any

favours.

At 9.59 am she planted her orange boots firmly on the little concrete stoop at the front door, took a deep breath, adjusted her backpack and knocked.

Footsteps, a shape behind the glass at the top of the door and there was Philippa Greene, dressed in a blue calf-length skirt, hair messy and held up with a

clip, fleece socks and a yellow v-neck jumper, third cup of coffee in hand.

"Oh, I thought you'd be the postman," she said, cocking her head a Thea curiously. "How can I help you?"

For a moment Thea was convinced she'd lost all power of speech. She felt as though she was standing at the bottom of a super-charged escalator, one step

forward would see her speeding away from home ground, with no chance of turning back or rewinding or anything. Stepping backwards, turning and running,

however, would mean to forego any future trips on the escalator. It was perhaps the first now-or-never situation Thea had ever been in.

"Are you alright?" there was a little concern creeping into Philippa's tone.

"I am, yes, sorry," Thea cleared her throat. "Are you Miss Philippa Greene?"

"Yes?"

Thea almost ran then. It seemed unfathomable to continue. This was stupid and mad and perfectly ridiculous.

"I-" she said, forcing herself to look up and meet Philippa Greene's increasingly disconcerted gaze. "I was wondering if I could speak with you."

"About what?" Philippa frowned. "Oh dear, you're not doing missions, are you? Because-"

"No," Thea interrupted. "No missions. I…uhm…my name is Alethea Holmes."

"You're bloody joking."

"Yea, no…" the reaction startled Thea a little. "That would be a really weird joke, considering all the research one would-"

"Fucking hell." Philippa Greene looked positively dumbfounded.

"Hi…" Thea croaked, giving an awkward little wave.

"Okay," said Philippa. "Okay then. Right. Okay."

"Okay," Thea agreed.

"Jesus. Right. I guess you'd better come in then."

"Really?"

"This isn't going to be an in-between-doors sort of conversation," Philippa pointed out.

For some reason this sent Thea into manic giggles.

"I guess not," she snorted.

"Oh God." Philippa was looking at her, shaking her head, looking and looking and looking. It occurred to Thea that she might be exhibiting trades that were

reminiscent of Agnes Tremaine and how strange it would be for Philippa if she did…and how strange it was that Thea would have thought of all these trades as

her very own until now.

"Come on," Philippa said, stepping aside to let Thea pass. "Do you drink tea?"

"Yes, please."

"How d'you take it?"

"Black with two sugars," Thea said cautiously.

"No lemon?"

"Lemon's vile."

"Jesus. Alright then." Philippa closed the door and led the way to the kitchen. "Jesus."

()

Thea stood by the kitchen table, watching Philippa move about the kitchen, going through tea making motions. The kitchen was small and opened into the

living room, where a small round table still bore remnants of breakfasts. Someone, presumably the bike courier, had eaten muesli; the travel agent had

apparently opted for grainy toast and marmalade. The teabags were kept in a tin with blue birds on it rather than their original packaging. The sugar was in a

small ceramic container made in the image of a pineapple. The cup she chose for Thea had a picture of a pug wearing glasses on it.

"Do I like my tea the same?" Thea asked.

Philippa Greene stopped, a hand holding the teabag hovering above the cup.

"How-" she started.

"Because you made a point of asking about the lemon," Thea explained in little more than a whisper. "So, did Agnes take lemon or didn't she?"

"She-" Philippa cleared her throat violently, "- she did. Take lemon."

"Oh." It was irrational to be disappointed, but she was.

"Come outside." Philippa pulled the sliding door to the small backyard open. "I think I need a cigarette."

She removed a leather pouch of tobacco and rolling implements from a kitchen drawer. A lighter and ashtray sat on the rusty table outside. Thea lowered

herself into one of the plastic chairs, clutched her teacup although it was too hot and waited. Philippa expertly rolled a cigarette and inhaled deeply upon

lighting.

"So here you are," she said pensively, watching her smoke drift upwards.

"Quite so."

"Quite."

Someone had hung a bird feeder from the lonely skinny tree by the back fence.

"So."

"Yes."

"You've got some… questions, I imagine?" Philippa eyed Thea carefully.

"Sort of," Thea said weakly. "I mean, I do, but they're not really specific questions as such…do you know what I mean?"

"Not really," Philippa admitted.

"I just want to know more," Thea attempted to explain.

"About…"

"My- Agnes," Thea said. "I want to know more about Agnes."

"Agnes." Philippa displayed the faintest hint of a smile. "Oh boy."

"Is that okay?"

"I don't know if 'okay' is the right word." Philippa stubbed out her cigarette and proceeded to roll another. "Do you…has your…you are in fact living with

your…Jesus."

"I know," Thea said with a mirthless chuckle. "It's all a bit like that."

"I can't even bloody speak properly," Philippa said gruffly. "Alright. Let me try again. You're living with Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"How's he?" Philippa asked.

"Pretty good, I guess."

"I've read that man's blog," Philippa said. "Watson, is it? Sounds like Sherlock's found his niche, so to speak."

"I suppose."

"How much has he told you? About your…story, for lack of a better word?"

Thea blew in her tea.

"I know they made me as a science project," she said.

"Right." Philippa swallowed hard. "Then what is it you want to know?"

Thea could feel herself blushing.

"Everything else…" She took a breath and exhaled deeply. "Anything, really. Were you there when I was born?"

For a moment Philippa Greene was perfectly still. Stunned. Literally stunned.

"I was," she said after the longest few heartbeats in recorded history.

"Was he, too?"

"He. Sherlock?"

Thea nodded.

"He was."

"How was it?"

"Your birth?"

"Yea?"

"It was…" Philippa paused, studying her cigarette, which had gone out, "…hectic."

Thea looked at her, willing her to go on.

"Nothing had happened for so long," Philippa continued, speaking to the backyard in general rather than Thea. "And then everything happened at once. Some

machine started beeping, half the hospital staff seemed to come running and next thing we knew they threw us out and whisked Agnes away to theatre. They

put us in this awful family room. It had a picture of a row boat in the middle of a lake, this empty row boat. It was spooky, there were no ripples in the water

from someone diving in or anything…"

"Maybe it'd become unmoored," Thea suggested.

"Huh. That's what Sherlock said, too." Philippa smiled sadly. "We were in that stupid room for an hour before a nurse came to tell us you had been moved to

the NICU."

"Why did they?"

"You'd gotten all tangled in the chord," Philippa said. "It had cut off your oxygen supply for longer than they liked. The nurse was infuriatingly calm about it,

Sherlock did quite a bit of shouting and then she took him to see you."

"But not you?"

"No."

"Was that because you weren't technically family?" Thea asked. "Was that why they were being difficult at first about you coming into the delivery room, too?"

"How do you know that?" Philippa asked.

"I…uhm…I read some emails?" Thea was working the tea cup like a stress ball.

"Emails."

"Between Agnes and…ah…Sherlock," Thea said weakly. "They mention you…"

"Really." Philippa was studying her intently.

"Elowen's a nice name, I thought," Thea mumbled.

"Jesus," Philippa sighed.

"I-" to her tremendous surprise, Thea felt as though she might start to cry any moment.

"This is bizarre," Philippa said.

"I'm sorry," Thea sniffed. "I should have prepared."

"How could you possibly prepare for _this_?" Philippa had a twisted little smirk on her face. "Make a questionnaire?"

"Might have been helpful…"

"Okay." Philippa re-lit her cigarette and turned her chair to face Thea. "So. You know nothing about Agnes?"

"Not a thing," Thea admitted. "Other than that she was studying genetics and liked cherries a lot."

"You know, knowing your father and assuming he has not changed fundamentally, that's actually not that surprising."

Despite herself, Thea snorted a laugh through her tears.

"Would you perhaps like me to just give you some random facts?" Philippa asked and the softness of her tone suggested that Thea was cutting a thoroughly

pitiful figure. "If something in particular catches your interest, you can ask more about it. Would that be at all helpful?"

"That would be tremendous," Thea said honestly.

"Tremendous. Okay." Philippa closed her eyes for a moment. "Agnes loved dangly earrings, her favourite pair were these tiny meat cleavers, she'd wear them

on special occasions. She ate her own weight in Granny Smith apples in her first trimester with you. When she was in a bad mood she'd listen to Monty

Python's _Medical Love Song_ to cheer herself up. She didn't have a favourite colour, in fact she thought having a favourite colour was completely absurd and

elitist, but she looked really good in dark green. It was never a good idea to talk to her in the mornings before she'd had the better part of a pot of tea. She

slept on her side and liked to have her back flat against the wall. She kept a picture of her parents in the kitchen, because they had been fond of family meals."

"Are her parents alive?" Thea asked. She felt dizzy with information. It was as though Philippa Greene had attached a bicycle pump to the flat little stick figure

that was Thea's idea of Agnes Tremaine and was now inflating her a little more with every sentence, fleshing her out, giving her proper dimensions.

"No." Philippa held Thea's eyes with her own. "They were going for a holiday in Scotland and their car was hit by a truck."

"How old was Agnes then?"

"Twenty."

"Were you already together?"

"No," Philippa said quietly. "She deferred for a semester to sort out her parents affairs and when she came back to uni, she moved into our share house. She

was the tenth person we interviewed for the spare room."

"Was it a big share house?" Thea asked.

"There were six of us. It was a little mad, but I think Agnes needed things to be loud and busy at that point. A year later I started my first proper job and we

moved out into a flat, just the two of us. That's when she started talking about having a baby."

Philippa was smiling, which struck Thea as odd. Then again, Agnes had been dead for eleven years, which was probably long enough to turn painful memories

into good ones.

"See," Philippa said thoughtfully, "she never explained specifically, but I think she really missed having a family. She had no siblings and had been really close

with her parents; so having a child would have made her feel like she had someone who really belonged with her. At first I argued with her about it, because

she was just so young. So very, very young. But she was adamant in starting to look at our options. We did the grand tour of sperm banks, we literally went

on a road trip for a week, drove all over the place – but the rules were quite rigid back then. We'd not been together very long, she was well below the

customary age for looking at that sort of thing…it was a pretty frustrating experience."

"So-"

"So," Philippa went on, seemingly on a roll now, "Agnes came up with the bright idea of bypassing the system entirely. We had a few good male friends and

she proposed to all of them, but they were all a little freaked out by the idea. None of us were even thirty, the idea of parenthood didn't seem appealing to any

of them. For a few months, after falling out with pretty much every guy we knew over this, Agnes seemed to be getting over the whole idea. Buried herself in

work. Spent late nights in the lab, whole nights actually. Said she liked to work in peace, when everyone had gone home…most people anyway. She did have

one fellow night owl though."

Thea had not been this spellbound by a story since she was three years old.

"Sherlock bloody Holmes," Philippa said, shaking her head. "He had quite the reputation. Talented beyond all reason, at chemistry and at pissing people off.

Complete genius, but utterly inept socially. Made his spending money doing other people's work during the day and then did his own experiments at ridiculous

hours. They started having smoke breaks together, well, Agnes started bumming cigarettes off him whenever he went outside. Sussed him out, over weeks.

She figured he was a fine candidate, brainy, not hideous to look at and completely opposed to anything conventional. When she explained her pitch to me, the

science project angle, I told her she was batshit crazy. But a week later he was sitting in our kitchen at five in the morning and they were drafting a project

proposal."

Birds were tweeting innocently in the sad little tree. Thea's cup was barely warm anymore.

"Conveniently a medical student owed him a favour," Philippa continued. "So they just went ahead and started trying. Twice they struck out, but third time's a

charm, as they say. Agnes was thrilled to the point of singing in the shower. I'd thought I'd seen her happy before, but this was a whole new level of joy. She

scoured thrift stores for kids' books before we'd even been to the first scan."

"What ones?" Thea whispered.

"She was a big fan of Babette Cole."

"Oh. Is she good?"

"Very funny. Quite obscure." Philippa sighed. "The kind of books that would make a kid feel okay about having an eccentric family. Agnes figured that might be

helpful considering the circumstances. She spent a lot of time working out future family dynamics, forced me to contact my parents to see if they were open to

the idea of grandchildren. When that didn't go very well-"

"Why didn't it?"

"Ah…" Philippa looked pained for a moment. "My parents are quite traditional, let's leave it at that. So then, Agnes became fixated on Sherlock's parents. He

dug in his heels, naturally. Saw no reason why he should involve his family in what was clearly a work related matter; but Agnes was tenacious. She hounded

him and hounded him until he finally caved and gave them the happy news."

"They came for tea…" Thea said.

"They did." Philippa nodded. "They were incredibly lovely. I was out of my mind with dread when they announced their visit, but they just took the whole thing

in their stride, they were unbelievably open about it. Sherlock refused to come, which was probably a good thing in retrospect, but at the time Agnes was

outraged. I kept reminding her that she had specifically recruited him because he wouldn't interfere, but she had somehow gotten it into her head that he

should be taking on a more fatherly attitude."

"Why?"

"You have to understand that we didn't really know Sherlock very well, when they…when he agreed to be part of the plan." Thea noticed that Philippa was

choosing her words a lot more carefully now. "It wasn't until things were well under way that we realised just how different he was. Agnes wanted to be sure

he'd be there in case you had a similar condition."

"He doesn't have a condition," Thea said and was surprised at her vehemence.

"He kind of does," Philippa insisted. "And when we quizzed his parents, very carefully, over tea and scones and scan pictures, they did let on that he'd had a

hard time coping with the world as a child. Agnes became a little anxious that we weren't equipped to deal with any special needs you might have-"

"Special needs?" Thea stared at her.

"For lack of a better word, yes." Philippa remained perfectly calm. "So Agnes started working on him."

"It backfired, didn't it?" Thea's thoughts returned to the emails. "He stonewalled her. He doesn't do well with that kind of thing."

"You could say that," said Philippa with a slight wince. "He all but disappeared for quite a while."

"Did he go on a bender?"

"Jesus…"

"I take that as a yes?" Thea's annoyance at terms like 'condition' and 'special needs' had somehow propelled her back into a more businesslike state of mind.

Philippa Greene might have been the prime source of background information, but she was still a goldfish.

"Yes." Philippa's voice had hardened a little. "But when he came back to the land of the living, he seemed to have had some kind of change of heart."

"He doesn't have changes of heart."

"You're pretty literal, aren't you," Philippa said drily. "Fine. He had somewhat adjusted his perspective. He had done some thinking, so he said, and could see

how his expertise in navigating the world through a paradigm quite particular to him might be something that could be of help to you."

"If I happened to share sections of his paradigm?"

Philippa looked at Thea with genuine surprise.

"Precisely."

"See, that was much more specific," Thea said with what she hoped to be an encouraging smile. "I can follow, you really don't need to employ inane turns of

phrase on my account."

"How old are you now?"

"Eleven," Thea replied, unsure what this had to do with anything.

"I presume you're aware that most eleven-year-olds are not familiar with the term paradigm? Or use words like 'inane'?"

"So?" Thea frowned.

"So that suggests to me that you do in fact share some of Sherlock's traits, some of the more unusual ones." Philippa started rolling another cigarette.

"Jemma will get annoyed if you smoke all her tobacco," Thea pointed out.

Philippa slowly licked the paper and smoothed the edges together.

"How do you know it's Jemma's?" she asked. "Could be Kevin's."

"Kevin doesn't smoke," Thea replied automatically. "He's a health nut, that's why he decided to job as a courier rather than getting some entry position

pertaining to his actual degree. Also, if he did in fact smoke, he'd have taken the tobacco with him. Courier's tend to have a fair bit of downtime."

"Could be mine."

"But you don't smoke-smoke," Thea sighed. "You smoke other people's cigarettes but you won't buy your own so you don't fully relapse. Look, if you smoked

roll-ups all the time you'd have those weird nicotine stains on your index and middle finger. Jemma doesn't take them to work so she doesn't get tempted to

take a smoke break every hour. And there's nail polish stains on the pouch. She should have rolled before she manicured."

"And you don't call this a condition?" Philippa asked.

"No, I call that paying attention," Thea snapped.

"Can you choose to not pay attention?"

This of course was a shitty question. Thea had to hand it to Philippa Greene, the woman knew how to entrap one in conversation.

"I'm learning," she muttered.

"From your father?"

"Also from my uncle."

"Mike the spy?" Philippa exclaimed almost gleefully.

Thea cocked her head.

"That's what we used to call him – not to his face obviously…"

"Did you actually meet him?" Thea asked.

"A few times." Philippa nodded. "He had a habit of appearing on campus at pretty regular intervals to check on the state of affairs. He freaked Agnes right out,

but I kind of liked him. He was pretty no-nonsense."

"That's an understatement."

"I guess," Philippa allowed. "But he was very good about all the things Sherlock was being difficult about. He took care of all manner of paperwork, he sorted

out the hospital when they wouldn't let me attend the birth…I'm pretty sure he dragged Sherlock out of some drug den by his hair and made him get his act

together."

"Plausible," Thea agreed.

"How's he?"

"Mycroft?" Thea shrugged. "He's…important."

"Politics?"

"Yea."

"I'm not surprised. He was an even bigger workhorse than his brother. He came to the funeral."

"He said…"

"Anyway," Philippa lit up and gave Thea a pointed look. "If you didn't have those two around to teach you coping skills, I imagine your life would be a little more

difficult. Am I right?"

Thea nodded absentmindedly. A very large question had been forming inside her for quite a while and it seemed to be about ready.

"Sorry," she said very slowly, "could we backtrack just a little?"

"Sure."

"So…before? Were you saying that Agnes actually wanted a child? Like a child-child? Not a specimen to study?"

Quite a long silence followed and when Philippa spoke again she sounded genuinely baffled despite having seriously taken her time.

"Well, yes. Obviously."

"How is that obvious?" Thea asked utterly bewildered.

"Because normal people don't have kids as science projects."

"Surely people have kids for all kinds of reasons," Thea argued.

"True, of course," Philippa conceded. "To keep their lineage going, to fuse with the object of their affection, to trap someone they're worried about loosing, to

have something that remains of them once they're…gone. But the underlying motif, I think, is love. People have kids to add love to their little bit of the world."

"Is that what Agnes wanted?" Thea asked, fighting a sudden feeling of vertigo.

"Yes."

"No." Thea shook her head furiously, as much to emphasise her disagreement as to clear her vision.

"Yes."

"Did she actually say that? To you? Out loud? Specifically?"

"She did," Philippa said quietly. "And to you. All the time. She'd rub her belly and tell you all sorts of things."

"Like what?"

"Just…things." Philippa's free hand moved to wipe at the corner of her eye. "Places she wanted to show you. Things she would do with you. How she would

take you to swim in the ocean. Feed you strawberries. Walk to the corner shop with you to get Cornettos. Take old bread to the ducks in the park."

"Were you jealous?" The words were out before Thea had time to reconsider.

Philippa Greene's mouth fell open just a tiny bit.

"Sor-"

"I was," Philippa interrupted, "a little. More than a little. I'd have liked more time with just Agnes, I felt we hadn't had the chance to get bored enough with

each other to properly enjoy a child. And, of course, she did just go ahead with it even though I had some reservations. They didn't count for anything, as far

as Agnes was concerned. She wanted you much more than she wanted me…so I was jealous. And I was absolutely terrified of becoming a parent, even a step

parent, whatever my precise title would have been. So, actually, I wasn't just jealous of you, I was jealous of Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Because he had a choice." Philippa exhaled deeply. "Because he could just do a runner and not care."

Thea looked up at the absurdly blue sky.

"So when Agnes died," she said, "what happened?"

"What do you mean?" Philippa sounded absolutely exhausted.

"If he didn't care," Thea made herself say, "then why did he take me?"

Philippa pondered this for a while.

"I honestly can't tell you," she said finally. "I mean, I didn't have any claim as it was. I wasn't biologically involved and Agnes and I had not done anything to

make our relationship official on paper. Sherlock's paternity was never in question. I guess there was no one else."

"Would you have liked to…claim me?"

Air escaped Philippa Greene as though she was a punctured birthday balloon.

"No."

"Huh."

"I was grieving and I was angry," Philippa elaborated. "I wouldn't have been able to cope with a baby and I didn't want to. It would have meant committing to

some kind of regular contact with Sherlock and it was already taking all my self-control not to punch his lights out."

"Are you still angry with him now?" Thea asked.

"No," Philippa answered. "It wasn't his fault, really. Agnes got him under false pretences. But at the time he was the only one I could be angry with. He didn't

seem particularly bothered by it either, so that made it easier."

"But why did he take me?" Thea asked again.

Philippa shook her head.

"I don't know," she said emphatically. "You'll have to ask him."

They sat for as long as it took Philippa to roll and smoke another cigarette. When she stubbed it out, Thea stood abruptly.

"Thank you for your time," she said stiffly. "It's been most illuminating."

"You're welcome," Philippa said. "Shall I show you out?"

"I think I'll find my way," Thea snapped, turned and with the utmost care not to break into a run, slipped through the sliding door, leaving Philippa Greene to

her cold tea and half-full ashtray.


	25. Overload

The stairs up to the flat were insurmountable. Mount Everest had nothing on them. Thea stood at the bottom, hand on the bannister, eyes trained on the

topmost step, unable to move. Upstairs her father was playing the violin. Sort of. The frequent stops and starts meant he was composing. Standing by the

window, half-empty sheet on the music stand, propped up on a book of Bach compositions to safeguard from poking holes in the pages as he wrote, ballpoint

pen balanced precariously on the little edge of the stand. He always composed with ballpoint because pencils were for imbeciles.

Thea's first grade teacher had had a pencils-only policy, arguing that it was easier for the children to erase and correct their mistakes. One afternoon she'd

physically cornered Sherlock and demanded he confiscate Thea's fountain pen and send her to school with the appropriate writing equipment. She'd caught him

on a bad day, poor Miss Henley, but even if it had been the best day of his life, he still would have let her have it. As it was he annihilated her. Thea stood

open-mouthed next to them as her father reduced her teacher to an ashen faced pillar of salt before storming off. When she caught up with him halfway to the

tube station, she'd asked him what 'repressed penchant for military kink' meant and he'd explained that it was 'an extreme enjoyment of unpleasant men in

uniform'. A few days later she'd been moved up into second grade. The only people allowed to use pencils were Russian astronauts.

Thea felt as though she was wearing a space suit when she lifted her foot of the ground and placed it carefully on the first step up. She was wading through

honey, knee deep in treacle…the violin returned for a few bars then stopped abruptly again. Soft footsteps upstairs indicated a tea break. Tea was a constant

in her life. There had never not been any tea, no matter how much everything else deteriorated. Even at his most out of it and dysfunctional, Sherlock had not

once let them run out of tea. They'd run out of accommodation twice, but even then the deep pockets of his coat had held zip locks with tea bags in them and

stolen packets of sugar.

On the second step, Thea imagined she could hear his spoon clicking against the sides of his cup. It was probably an auditory illusion, but the image of his

hands handling the cutlery and crockery assaulted her nonetheless. Subtly racketeering with his cup and spoon, driving her uncle to distraction and raising an

eyebrow at Thea to encourage her to join in.

Thea froze with her foot in the air above step three when she heard the door upstairs open.

"Are you quite alright?" Sherlock called down.

A lump the size of a sovereign state stuck in her throat prevented Thea from answering.

"Are you carrying something exceedingly heavy?"

Thea cleared her throat violently, dislodging the lump enough to croak out

"Sorta."

" _Sort of._ Well, either get on with it or put it down, but do come up. I require a second fiddle, so to speak."

His footsteps receded back into the living room and Thea, acutely aware of the mechanical working of her joints, ascended the stairs at a measured pace. She

stopped at the door, surveying the room that was at once perfectly familiar and completely alien.

Sherlock was back at the window, his violin resting on the sill, leaning against the glass. Tea steamed from the cup next to it.

"Fetch your violin, provided you remember what it looks like and where it's located," he said without turning around.

"I'll fetch nothing," Thea ground out between gritted teeth. Her jaw was hurting.

Her father turned around and let his eyes sweep over her.

"What?" he asked. "Do you have something better to do? Truancy can be so demanding-"

"Shut up!" Thea yelled.

"Considering I've assured your school secretary that you are in bed with a slight to moderate fever, you may want to adjust your tone accordingly," Sherlock

said coolly.

In response Thea grabbed a golf club that was inexplicably leaning on the wall next to the door and hurled it at him. Her father side stepped with feline grace

and the club struck the window with enough force to shatter it. Sherlock dived for his falling violin, catching it millimetres above the floor and was upright just in

time to dodge the hardcover on local architectural quirks flying his way.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked, sounding genuinely interested.

"With _me_?" Thea roared. "What is wrong with _me_?"

"Apt question considering you appear to be on some sort of rampage, wouldn't you say?" Her father kept his eyes on her, ready to evade another object, while

placing his violin in its case and pushing it under his chair for safe keeping.

"Shut up!" she repeated at top volume.

"If I do, will you explain what on earth has gotten into you? Because if you won't there's precious little point in me shutting up."

Thea took hold of another book, this one about smugglers' routes in the London sewer system, and raised it.

"John's got a bookmark in there," Sherlock said sounding almost bored. "He'll be cross if it falls out, he's incapable of remembering where he's up to."

Thea lobbed the book at him, he slid out of its flight path and the skull came clattering off the mantle.

"Your funeral." Sherlock shrugged, turned his back and ambled towards the kitchen.

Seething and deprived of her an attentive target for her rage, Thea aimed a vicious kick at the couch, actually moving it closer to the wall.

"That's better. Attacking inanimate objects is a brilliant way to work through a tantrum."

Thea spotted a machete in the umbrella stand. It was surprisingly heavy and as she raised it over her head she wondered for a brief, distracting moment how

people managed to hack their way through jungles with these things. She'd hoped she would split the coffee table in two when she brought the weapon down

on it, but it merely took a chunk of wood out of the table top and send unpleasant reverberations up her arms.

She turned towards the kitchen, machete still at the ready and was startled to see her father holding two cups of tea, one regular cup and an oversized one

bearing the image of a tyrannosaurus skeleton and the caption 'Tea-Rex'. He'd bought it for her at the natural history museum a thousand lifetimes ago.

"Lots of tea?" he asked.

Thea clenched her fist on the machete's handle and started to cry so violently it hurt her chest.

"Is everything alright up there?" Mrs Hudson's voice drifted up the staircase.

"Certainly, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock called back. "We just misjudged some distances."

"It'll-"

"-go on the rent," he finished her sentence. "That's fine!"

When he approached with the tea, Thea lifted the machete again, aiming it at him, at least vaguely, she couldn't see all that well through her tears.

"I'll chop your head off," she sobbed.

"That would be novel," her father said calmly, setting the tea on the wounded coffee table and settling in his chair.

The machete clattered to the floor and Thea stood helpless under the onslaught of so many emotions she couldn't even begin to process them. She thought

about curling up on the floor or covering her face with her hands, but it seemed too much of an effort. So she simply remained upright where she was, weeping

with almost luxurious abandon. The physical sensation of it was quite astonishing, so much so it penetrated the chaos in her head. Her shoulders were moving

on their own accord, her tear ducts were aching with the effort of production, her throat was being brutalised by hiccups to the point of near agony. All of it

completely outside her control. Amazing. Awful, to be sure, but also amazing.

When her body was tired of putting on a show, five minutes or an hour later, Thea felt as if she'd been in a washing machine.

"Finished?" Sherlock asked.

She nodded, took three wobbly steps and flopped on the couch.

"That was quite something," her father pointed out. "Did that hurt? It looked like it might have."

"A little," Thea said weakly, closing her eyes and sinking deeper into the sofa. "Bollocks…"

"What _was_ that?"

Thea cracked her eyes open and noted that Sherlock was leaning forward, head at a slight angle, enraptured with interest. It was the sort of stance he usually

reserved for particularly confounding case files.

"Overload," she said.

"Sensory?"

"Emotional."

"Oh." Even though her eyes were closed again, Thea knew her father winced slightly at this. "Can you pin point its origin?"

Thea grabbed the small couch pillow near her hip, pressed her face into it and screamed.

"Second wind?" Sherlock inquired.

After a couple of deep breath Thea took the pillow off her face and looked at him.

"Oh my word, you look awful."

"Thanks."

"So," her father ventured in uncharacteristically cautious tones, "what brought this on?"

"I-" Thea froze. It was entirely possible to simply not tell him. About anything. She could just chalk the whole thing up to experience and carry on as per usual,

hoping the weird sensation of being in a play would disappear on its own accord. Only she had reasonable doubt that it might not; which meant the only way

to escape the play was to rip the script so the actors couldn't be in character anymore.

Her father pushed her giant cup towards her and she picked it up with both hands.

"I did something really stupid," Thea told the quivering lake of tea in front of her.

" _How_ stupid?"

Something in Sherlock's tone made her look up at him and though it might not have been worry as such, what she found in his expression was very close.

"Probably a nine."

"Are the police looking for you?" he asked.

"Not that kind of stupid," Thea said.

"Do you need medical attention?"

"Not that kind either."

"Alethea. What. Did. You. Do?"

For the second time in one day Thea stepped onto Satan's speeding escalator.

"I went and saw Philippa Greene."

As soon as it was out she tensed like a boxer preparing to absorb a flurry of punches, steadying herself for the inevitable torrent of reprimand.

"Who?"

She stared at him.

"You cannot be serious," she said quite loudly. " _Philippa Greene_."

Sherlock made a little face and shook his head. Thea very nearly threw her teacup at him.

"My mother's girlfriend? Philippa? Phil Greene? The only other person present when I was born?"

"Actually there were about twel-"

"Non-medical," she cut him off. "The only other person who was not hospital personnel. You were in the room with the picture of the unmoored boat together?"

"Oh… _oh_ …I seem to-"

"Did you _delete_ her?" Thea asked dumbfounded.

"I must have," her father admitted.

"You remember the picture?"

"Ghastly," he replied without hesitation.

"But not the woman with you in the room?"

"Not…specifically." Sherlock cleared his throat. "The host's girlfriend, you say?"

"Say her name."

"Phyllis?" he ventured.

"No!" Thea shouted. "It's Philippa, but never mind that, say my mother's name."

"Agnes."

"Good. You're not allowed to call her 'the host' anymore."

"But-"

"You're forbidden."

Her father rolled his eyes and huffed slightly.

"Fine," he said. "So, you went and saw Agnes' girlfriend, _Philippa_."

"Yes," Thea sighed.

"I presume this was a research based visit."

She nodded, chewing her lip mercilessly.

"That doesn't seem stupid," Sherlock said pensively. "Provided she has adequate powers of memory, she'd be an excellent source of the kind of information

you so clearly crave…though I get the impression you didn't particularly care for whatever she chose to divulge."

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Oh, good. A healthy display of sarcasm, you must be on the up." He looked at her intently. "What could she possibly have told you to warrant this kind of

reaction?"

Thea took a deep breath.

"She's presented me with a conundrum."

"The conundrum being?" her father prompted.

"What she told me…" Thea trailed off, gathered herself and tried again. "What she told me seemed like conclusive proof that you are a complete idiot.

However," she said quickly as Sherlock opened his mouth, "I'm fairly confident in your intelligence, which unfortunately leaves me no choice but to consider that

you're in fact a liar."

"You know I'm a liar, I lie all the time," her father frowned.

"To me you don't," she said. "At least not about important things. I didn't think so, anyway."

"Right…you will need to be a bit more specific. I'm at loath to admit it, but I don't think I follow."

"Did you know she duped you?"

"Philippa Greene?"

"Agnes!" Thea snapped. "The whole science project thing was a ruse. How could you not know that? You work everything out. Always."

"What do you mean, it was a ruse?" Sherlock's eyebrows were knitted in intense concentration. "You've read the project proposal yourself."

It was true, she had. He'd shown it to her some years earlier, when the story of the Jar-Baby was starting to move her to questions. Agnes' deception had

admittedly been pretty thorough.

"Are you telling me," Thea said quietly but somewhat dangerously, "that you at no point realised that my mother didn't have purely scientific motives?"

"What other motives could she have possibly had?" her father asked.

"She just wanted a child."

"Whatever for?"

"And that," Thea said grimly, "is the very thing."

Sherlock sighed.

"You're being ludicrously cryptic."

"Did you want me?"

"Pardon?"

"So you didn't?"

"Alethea-"

"My mother wanted me."

"What is your point?" Sherlock sounded just a tiny bit tetchy.

"She wanted _me_ ," Thea said, her fists clenched so tightly she was sure she'd pierce the skin of her palms. "She didn't want a specimen or a protégé – she just

wanted me."

"You're being completely irrational." Her father seemed perfectly composed, but it didn't escape Thea that his teacup hand had been suspended halfway

between the table and his lips for the better part of two minutes. "You were in utero, she did not know you. It's literally impossible to feel a specific want for an

unfamiliar entity, at least one that later translates into anything other than disappointed fantasizing."

"Do you love me?"

It was as though gravity was suspended for a long fraction of a moment. Everything in the room rose, floated for a brief moment and shifted position ever so

slightly when it all slammed back to the ground.

" _What_?" Sherlock spat, staring at Thea like he had never seen her before.

"Do. You. Love. Me?" she repeated. "My mother loved me. Do you?"

Her father placed his teacup on the table with more force than strictly necessary and his now free hand flew to the bridge of his nose.

"Love is an intangible, imprecise and utterly constructed term," he said.

"No it's not," Thea hissed.

"It absolutely is," Sherlock snapped back. "People claim to _love_ all manner of things. _I love you. I love toast. I just love this song_ … it's the most useless verb in all

of linguistic history. And even if we assume for the sake of this frankly ludicrous argument that it is possible 'to love' anyone or anything, it would still be naïve

to the point of stupidity to believe for one second that the host did _that_ when it came to you."

"You're not-"

"Agnes, fine, Agnes then. She might have been enamoured with the idea of who she presumed – with no grounding of any sort, I might add – her foetus would

turn out to be; but to claim that she _loved_ you, specifically, is nothing short of ridiculous. And I refuse, absolutely, to be coerced into employing meaningless

terminology simply because you're experiencing some kind of juvenile identity crisis."

Outside a car screeched to a halt. Downstairs Mrs Hudson turned on the blender. A pigeon sat on the window sill and examined the broken glass curiously

before taking off again. Thea put her feet on the floorboards, startled to find them solid, placed her cup on the table next to her father's and got up.

She was still wearing her jacket, the keys to her bike lock jangled in its right pocket as she slowly walked to the door, down the stairs and out of the house. It

was entirely possible that her father called after her; as it was, Thea heard only the rushing of her blood and the pounding of her heart.


	26. Paradigm Shift Pt1

It was impossible to comprehend that less than five hours had passed since she'd stepped into Philippa Greene's kitchen, yet when Thea rode up to the bike

sheds outside her school's oval, classes seemed to still be in session. Last period on Wednesdays was Math B for Lisa and International Cultures for Thea and

Marcus. The elective had sounded somewhat interesting but was, unfortunately, in actual fact outrageously lame; so it came as no surprise that Marcus was

settled on a crate behind the bike stands, smoking.

"Beastie." He gave her a nod as she dismounted and sat next to him.

"Marcus."

"Are you alright?" he asked. "You look kinda pale."

"Do you think I could kip in the shed for a few nights?" Thea asked.

Marcus looked at her strangely.

"Just a week, possibly two."

"Why?"

"Just need some space." It had seemed like a reasonable request when it occurred to her on the ride over, but even Thea had to admit it sounded a little

stupid now.

"You practically live alone," Marcus pointed out.

"But only practically," Thea sighed.

"Beastie, you're my very good buddy and all," Marcus said with a lopsided grin, "but no. You can't sleep in the shed for a fortnight."

"Why?" she whined, though more because it seemed bad form to accept his perfectly sensible answer immediately.

"Because firstly, my mum would notice within three hours and completely lose her marbles; secondly, you'd probably freeze your ring off, and thirdly, I'd likely

get arrested for harbouring a child runaway."

Thea groaned and leaned heavily against the bike shed, banging her head on the corrugated iron.

"Concussing yourself won't be helpful," Marcus said.

"I know…" she sighed. "My whole life is a load of bollocks, Marcus."

"Oh dear," he chuckled. "So young and so jaded already."

"Piss off," she snapped, though his impersonating old people never failed to make her grin a little. "Can I have one of these?"

Marcus looked at the cigarette in his hand and back to her.

"Sure. Would you like a beer with that?" He smirked.

"I'm having an exceptionally shitty day, Marcus," Thea said tiredly, "and I could really use a little epinephrine. Seeing as you won't grant me asylum it's the

least you can do, really."

"I don't have any epinephrine, sadly."

"Nicotine releases epinephrine, you dolt," she sighed.

"You can have precisely one drag," said Marcus and held out his cigarette to her. "You won't like it, I guarantee."

Thea took the cigarette from his outstretched hand, brought it to her lips and inhaled carefully. While it was a little bit burny, it was by no means entirely

unpleasant. Today was the kind of day, Thea felt, that warranted her first cigarette. She ignored Marcus snapping fingers and took another drag, watching the

smoke drift from her mouth in a thick, acrid cloud. On her fifth drag a black car pulled up beside them.

"Ah…for the love of God," Thea moaned.

"What?" Marcus asked.

"You haven't got any weed on you, do you?" Thea hissed, barely moving her lips.

"No…why?" His eyes narrowed at her and then widened as two black suited, ear-piece wearing gentlemen emerged from the vehicle and made a beeline for

them. "What the fuck-"

"That's quite enough adventure for one day, Miss Holmes. If you please."

Thea threw her cigarette on the ground and stood.

"As for you, Mister Havisham…" Marcus' jaw dropped slightly when one of the goons addressed him by name "…you may want to reconsider supplying minors

with regulated substances. Unless you wish to find yourself in a court of law."

"You what?" Marcus asked weakly.

"Leave him alone," Thea said, rolling her eyes. "It's only a cigarette. And look, I'm coming, see?"

"After you."

"See you tomorrow, Marcus."

"Uhm…right…see ya, beastie."

Thea gave him a 'whatchagonnado' shrug and climbed into the back of the car.

()

"Thank you so much for freaking out my friend."

Attack seemed the best defence, especially considering her uncle looked supremely annoyed.

"Sit," he snapped.

Huffing, she sat. For a moment they regarded each other across Mycroft's desk, Thea doing her very best to match his steely gaze while she considered her

options. They were depressingly limited, now that the practice shed was off the list of possible accommodations. Entertaining the fantasy of squatting in Marcus

backyard had been amusing and it had distracted her from the reality of her situation. Now, however, in the confines of her uncle's impeccably tidy office, it

came crashing back over her with a vengeance. This was it. Last stop. All spirits of attack went out of her.

"Can I stay with you for a bit?" she murmured.

"I beg your pardon?"

Thea sighed.

"May I please make use of your guest room?"

"And why would that be necessary?" Mycroft asked.

"It's the middle of the term, so I can hardly leave town," Thea answered, attempting to sound calm and reasonable. "And I'm not staying with _him_."

Admittedly, a small crack in her voice let her down towards the end of the sentence.

"Don't be dramatic," her uncle sighed.

"I'm not being dramatic," she said, irritated at the wetness threatening both her voice and eyes. "Come on, uncle Mycroft, please? I won't be any trouble. You

won't even know I'm there."

"We both know from experience that that is blatantly untrue," he said snidely.

"Surely we can agree that the circumstances differ."

"How so?"

"I'm _asking_ for a start," Thea struggled to keep from snapping at him. "And if you should kindly deign to grant me asylum, so to speak, I'll be there on my own

volition. And I'm, you know, older. I don't require supervision."

"Fair points, I suppose," Mycroft allowed.

"So, yes?"

"Just out of curiosity…what if I said no?"

"I don't know…" Thea suddenly felt very tired, "…I'd sleep in the Arches or something and then you'd send your goons for me anyway, so there's no point in

denying me, is there? Don't toy with me, please. I've had a trying day."

Mycroft studied her for a moment, his face giving nothing away. Thea was not worried, not really, she knew he wouldn't turn her down. She just hoped he'd

skip the plethora of hoops he could make her jump through for his own amusement.

"Would you like the car to stop of at Baker Street so you can get your school supplies and such?"

No hoops. It occurred to Thea that she might seem more shaken than she realised.

"Could you maybe just send someone round there later?" she asked cautiously. "I write them a list…would that be at all possible?"

"This is ridiculous."

"No, it's not." Thea looked at him with dangerously blurring vision. "Please?"

"Very well."

Wonders never ceased.

"Thank you," Thea whispered.

"I shall see you for dinner, I suppose," her uncle said resignedly. "Stay out of my study."

()

Thea was moving broccoli around her plate, acutely aware that Mycroft had done the unthinkable and left work _early_. Although he had spoken very little, he

was observing her closely, making her feel hideously self-conscious. She'd spent the hours between arriving at his place and being summoned to eat lying on

the bed in the guest room, attempting to review and file the day's input.

Her mother now had quarters of her own in Thea's castle, a wide open circular room with a large bookshelf and a kettle, so she could make tea in the morning.

Thea had also cracked open the door to her father's wing of the castle, but the chaos and disarray – suggestive of a level 3 earthquake at least – had been so

overwhelming she'd abandoned all forays in that direction. However, a distinct banging and raucous if unintelligible callings from her basement had eventually

wound her up enough to get the hell out of her castle.

So for the most part, Thea had just remained prone on the covers, examining the hollow ache in her chest with as much detachment as she could muster.

"Regression is an interesting coping mechanism," her uncle's voice startled her.

She looked at her plate and realised that she had stood the florets of broccoli upright, lining a path of pureed cauliflower. All she needed now was a couple of

fish fingers perhaps a salt shaker as a backdrop, then she could be changing the guard at Buckingham Palace…Christopher Robin went down with Alice…only

she was much too old for fish fingers and the fillets of whatever fish was served would not make good guards at all…Jesus, she needed sleep.

"May I be excused?"

"Certainly not."

Thea closed her eyes and ran her hand along the edge of the table cloth, counting the stitches in the lining like rosary beads.

"You know," she said slowly once she'd run out of table cloth, "you were mistaken."

"In regards to what?" Mycroft asked.

"You said not matter how much information I compiled, things would remain fundamentally the same," Thea quoted.

"I fear this is going to degenerate into philosophising rather swiftly," her uncle said with a pained expression.

"You were wrong," Thea insisted. "Excessively wrong."

"Nothing in your life has tangibly changed in the last…" Mycroft checked his watch, "…ten hours."

"Everything has changed," she said darkly.

She could see her uncle's jaw clench and relax, clench and relax, his fingers rubbing at his napkin as though to investigate its texture.

"All circumstance remains the same," he said. "What you are experiencing is not change but a shift of perspective. If we are to have a conversation about this,

I must ask you refrain from catastrophizing. Not even a nuclear apocalypse would change _everything_."

"Fine," Thea gritted her teeth. "My subjective truth has changed."

"Don't be preposterous," Mycroft sighed, exasperation fraying his crisp edges. "You haven't processed your new information sufficiently to arrive at any kind of

conclusion. A state of confusion does not equal a redefinition of one's truth. At the very most it's a potential pathway."

"To what?"

"Clarity, ideally."

Thea pushed her plate away.

"It's all perfectly clear, unfortunately," she said, gloom descending over her like liquid tar poured from a beaker.

"Enlighten me." Her uncle was tapping the side of his raised water glass.

"You don't even care," Thea pointed out. "You're just going to berate me for expressing myself inadequately."

"I do not _berate_ you," Mycroft said calmly. "I merely want your speech to mirror your intellect."

"So you don't care."

"Caring is not an advantage," he recited and Thea groaned. "But I do want to know. What is oh so perfectly clear?"

"That he _had_ to take me," Thea snapped. "Because there were no other parties staking a claim. He couldn't weasel his way out of it."

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow.

"It's true though, isn't it?" Thea balked at his unspoken yet blatant scepticism. "He couldn't very well deny his part in the whole disaster, not when he was

actually present. And leaving me on a doorstep would have been Victorian even by his standards."

"Victorian perhaps," her uncle conceded. "Not to mention quite illegal. And we both know how very seriously my brother takes the law."

"Are you actually being sarcastic right now?"

"Your melodramatics are at least as aggravating to me as my sarcasm is to you." Mycroft shook his head, so slightly it could have been mistaken for a spasm.

"As for my brother's weaselling abilities – they are second to none and you know it."

"But-"

"Is this really the revelation you take the most issue with?" her uncle went on. "The fact that it was not his original intention to raise you on his own? Because,

if I recall correctly – and I'm rather confident I do -, that is in no way new information. It is even part of that little origin story of yours. Why would it suddenly

upset you?"

"Because he didn't want any of this…" Thea could feel her anger tilting towards something far more dangerous… abject misery.

"No one _wants_ to be the remaining parent after a death in child birth, Alethea. But simply because he was not planning of being a traditional parent does not

mean-"

"But she did," Thea interrupted, her voice cracking.

"Pardon?"

"Agnes, she was planning on that." Mycroft's eyebrows lowered and narrowed at this. "I wasn't meant to be her experiment, did you know that? I was just

meant to be her daughter. She bought books for me."

"Oh my, I see…"

"No, you don't see," Thea snapped. "You don't have a bloody clue. She wanted to be my mother so much she almost drove away her girlfriend. She wanted to

be my mother so much she went and found a more or less random stranger to make me because she wouldn't take no for an answer."

Her uncle opened his mouth, but she barged on.

"She was going to take me to the ocean…" Salty water was once more present and Thea wondered briefly if she'd suddenly turned into what Lisa termed a

'crier'. "She was going to do all these really ordinary things with me and she was looking forward to it. She'd have gone to parent evenings and school concerts

and read to me…she'd have made me bloody sandwiches…I'd have had…"

"This is futile," Mycroft said somewhat softly but loud enough to penetrate her renewed sobbing. "This type of thinking is what drives people insane and I mean

that literally, do you hear me? What might have been is irrelevant and has no bearing on any part of reality. There a countless things which might have been

and you will never know how your circumstances would have been influenced by them. It is unknowable. To claim otherwise would be submitting to shameless

flights of fancy."

"But I was so close," Thea cried. "I was one successful medical intervention away from having a normal home! With an actual _parent_! My life would have been

so much…"

"Better?" her uncle interjected, making it sound like a dirty word. "Easier?"

"Yes!" She stared at him with red, hot eyes. "I live with a crazy person who thinks I'm his science experiment! What kind of person fathers a child for science?"

"I fail to see how a lonely and confused girl, barely out of her teens, bringing a child into the world with the expectation that this child should be able to

compensate for the loss of her entire family is somehow better." Mycroft held eye contact mercilessly.

"You don't know!" Thea shouted at him, pounding her fist on the table hard enough to topple the broccoli trees.

"Au contraire, _you_ don't know," Mycroft said in a tone that brokered no argument. " _I,_ on the other hand, have met said girl and therefore _do_ know."

Thea opened her mouth, yet found herself speechless. For perhaps the first time, her mouth seemingly had trouble keeping up with her brain. There had been

a number of retorts ready to be launched, but Thea was stopped in her tracks by the sinking feeling that none of them were truly applicable.

"I have to think about this," she said hoarsely. "May I be excused now?"

For a heartbeat, something very like approval flickered in her uncle's eyes.

"You may."

()

So Thea thought.

To anyone watching her she appeared to be doing all manner of things – riding to school, eating lunch, pouring over chemistry experiments with Marcus and

Lisa… - but while she was physically present and going through the motions of everyday activities, she was more or less on autopilot. Her autopilot was quite

efficient, so much so it remained undetected for days.

"Thea? _Thea!_ "

She looked up and blinked, disoriented. Lisa was eyeballing her over the neck of her bass. Thea was surprised to find herself seated behind the drums in the

practise shed, sticks in hand.

"Are you planning on putting those to the skins at some point tonight?" Lisa nodded towards the drumsticks.

"Sorry, sure…sorry…" Thea smacked her sticks together and launched into _Brickfield Nights_. Marcus and Lisa frowned at her.

"Beastie," Marcus said slowly. "We've done that one. We're on to _Carnival_ now. What's up with you?"

"Are we?" she sighed.

"Are you stoned?"

"Nope, that would be you," Thea grinned.

"Yet I'm aware where we are, geographically and in terms of set list," Marcus said drily.

"I am, too," she said, convincing no one. The fact that she had somehow made her way to band practice and halfway through their set was a little unnerving.

Thea had no recollection of even leaving Mycroft's this morning, let alone setting off from school to Marcus' house. Yet here she was.

Lisa put down the bass and went to put the kettle on.

"Break," she announced.

"Why?" Thea asked.

"Because you're going to explain what's going on and then you'll be able to focus."

"I'm focussed," Thea groaned.

"You are," Lisa agreed. "We'd just like to know on what, because it sure as hell isn't _this_."

Marcus took off his guitar and plopped on the broken down sofa.

"What up, beastie?"

Thea sighed some more and went to join him.

"I've got stuff on my mind," she offered vaguely.

"No shit."

"Hardy bloody har," Thea punched him on the leg. "It's horrendously complicated."

"We may not be geniuses," Lisa growled, pouring water and ladling sugar, "but we're not completely thick. Try us."

What did one say? Thea wondered. Where did one begin?

"I haven't been home since Wednesday," she said.

"Okay."

"I don't know if I'm going back." Neither Marcus nor Lisa said anything. "I'm trying to work out if I should, I guess. Or rather if I want to…and whether it matters

if I do."

For a while they sat, blowing into their cups.

"Fair enough that you're distracted then," Marcus said finally.

"I'm re-examining," Thea went on. "I've gotten some new information, see, so I've been reviewing all kinds of key memories to see if the new information has

any bearing on them. It's quite inconclusive."

"That sounds a bit intense," Lisa remarked.

"Can I ask you a question?" Thea eyed Lisa carefully. "It might be insensitive."

"You? Insensitive?" Lisa rolled her eyes. "Fire away."

"Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if your sister hadn't died?"

"Jesus, beastie…" Marcus eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair.

"I do," Lisa said quietly. "Not often though. I try not to."

"Why?"

"Because it's pointless," said Lisa. "And it's unhealthy."

"Why?"

Lisa sighed and put her tea down, interlacing her hands and untangling them again.

"Because she has died," she said finally. "We had a ton of family therapy, Thea, and every session they harped on about survivors' guilt and wishful thinking

and all that crap. It's fine to grieve and miss people," her voice took on a recitative quality, "but you have to accept that dead is dead. Living with someone's

memory is fine, but you can't bring them back, so there's no point in imagining what life would be with them now."

"This got really heavy real quick," Marcus said.

"Shut up," Lisa snapped. "Is this about your mum?"

"In a way," Thea admitted.

"Look," Lisa turned and her eyes found Thea's. "I'm not going to even pretend to understand what it's like for you, without your mum around, I can only

imagine it's really, really hard. _But_ ," she said quickly when Thea opened her mouth, "it is what it is. You can't change it. No matter how much you want to, you

simply can't."

"I don't think I want to change it, as such." Thea rubbed her hands over her face. "I…it's just so…I used to think I…"

"Deep breath," Lisa muttered.

"Right," Thea laughed a croaky little laugh. "The problem, I think, is that I don't know if I've misunderstood my entire life so far."

"Man," Marcus piped up, "that's beyond heavy now. We're entering the realm of metaphysics here, yea?"

"Are we?" Thea asked. "Maybe. Sorta. But I just don't know. I need more data. On everything."

There was another silence.

"Data on everything," Marcus said pensively. "That's a lot of data."

Lisa snorted.

"Good thing you're a research wiz," she said, giving Thea a slightly over-the-top thumbs up.

"I don't even know where to start right now," Thea groaned.

"If it's about your family," Lisa said, "it's probably best to ask your family. Thicko."

It was so perfectly obvious that Thea was about to give Lisa the finger, in fact her hand was half raised in rude salutations when it occurred to her that she

had in fact neglected to do the perfectly obvious.

"Huh," she said. "I may actually be an imbecile."

"You're special, that's all," Marcus said sweetly. "Now can we please bring the house down with something loud and angry? Might do us all a world of good,

yea?"

It seemed as good a plan as any.

()

Light was spilling from under the closed door of Mycroft's study when Thea returned to his house close to midnight.

"Come in," he called before she had even knocked.

Her uncle looked up from his laptop when she entered.

"How can I help you?" he asked.

"Are Gran and Grumps up at the house?" Thea asked.

Her grandparents' retired lifestyle was positively nomadic and it was beyond Thea to keep up with their locations. 'Up at the house' was shorthand for their

place up in Cumbria, where they spent most of their increasingly rare visits to home soil.

"I believe so."

"I thought I might go see them."

"Voluntarily."

"Yes," Thea rolled her eyes. "Could I get a ride up tomorrow? It's bank holiday long weekend. I'd come back Monday night."

"I see."

Thea found herself getting rather annoyed, unsure why.

"Unless you were planning on taking me to the zoo this weekend?" she said darkly.

Mycroft's mouth twitched.

"The zoo's not going anywhere, I suppose," he purred. "A car will be out the front at seven, unless that's too early?"

"Seven is perfect."

"They'll be expecting you."


	27. Paradigm Shift Pt2

It was noon and drizzling miserably when the car crunched up the pebbled driveway of Thea's grandparents' place. The house seemed much smaller than Thea

remembered, though of course, she had not been there since Gran's 70th birthday just over two years ago. Things were said to shrink as one grew taller,

another fine example of changing perspective. It was enough to give a girl a headache, Thea thought grimly as she lugged her backpack up the garden path

and knocked on the door. It was fairly flung open and her grandmother descended on her like an avalanche of affections.

"Darling, it's so very, very sweet of you to come visit! To see you twice in less than six months must be some kind of record…a sad sort of record…but it's lovely

to see you, simply lovely."

"And you," Thea smiled into the arm of her grandmother's cardigan.

"You must be famished."

Gran pulled her fully into the house and pushing the door shut behind them, before propelling Thea with her towards the kitchen. Her grandfather was

crouching awkwardly in front of the oven, poking its contents with an enormous two-pronged fork.

"That smells outrageous," Thea said appreciatively.

"He put that poor chicken in there at the crack of dawn," Gran smiled. "It's been basted in its own juices without mercy. It'll be the most delicious thing we've

eaten in years and he'll still complain about it, you watch."

"The chicken is magnificent," Grumps grunted as he struggled to his feet. "Alas, my culinary skills are substandard. I was dreaming. There was no hope I'd ever

do that animal justice. How are you, pet?"

"About to climb in there and liberate that mistreated bird," Thea nodded towards the oven.

"Ten more minutes."

"I can manage that. Just." Thea beamed at her grandfather. "Provided you baked some of that bread to tie me over."

"Gluttonous little monster," he grinned back. "Of course I have."

()

It was rare that Thea was so full she couldn't entertain the possibility of more food, but her grandfather was quite prone to get her there. She was reclined on

the sofa in front of the fireplace, fed to the point of immobility, when Gran approached with tea and a gigantic shoe box.

"Do we have to call for an ambulance?" she asked cheerfully.

"Not quite," Thea groaned. "But don't be offended if I skip those biscuits."

She flung her legs to the floor to make space for her grandmother, eyeing the shoe box curiously.

"What's that?"

Gran sat, holding the box on her lap, still smiling but somehow more serious than a moment ago.

"When Myccy called he said you were on something of a research mission," she said.

"He did?" Thea worked her top lip between her teeth. "What else did he say?"

"Not an awful lot…" her grandmother cocked her head and looked at Thea intently, "…he did, however, mention you had a bit of a tiff with your father."

"He didn't actually say 'tiff', did he?"

"Of course not," Gran chuckled. "His longwinded equivalent thereof, but he did sound concerned. Which suggests to me that it was quite serious."

Thea exhaled deeply.

"What's in the box, Gran?"

"Ghosts of Christmases past."

"How positively Dickensian…"

Her grandmother laughed.

"I'm not done pestering you about this," she said. "But we can have a look through here first, if you prefer. I've got days to work on you."

Thea smiled and took the offered shoebox, opening it curiously. It was full to the brim with photographs.

"You know," Thea said, picking up a shot of her much younger grandparents sitting on a windy looking beach, "normal people would put these up in frames. Or

at least photo albums."

"I keep meaning to," her grandmother said with a slight frown. "But I can't seem to manage. And we're here so rarely it seems a little pointless."

Thea made some kind of non-committal sound and fished a handful of pictures out.

"Jesus, is that uncle Mycroft?"

"And you're father." Gran's face softened almost to the point of smoothness. "Weren't they just delicious?"

"That wasn't the first adjective to come to mind," Thea admitted. Her uncle was probably younger than she was now and her father was little more than a

toddler. They were holding comically large ice cream cones. Thea had always somehow assumed her father teased her uncle about being fat just to be an arse,

but this child version of Mycroft was positively chunky.

"Let me see…" her grandmother dug into the box and rummaged.

Thea looked through the stack in her hand. Her uncle in a school uniform with ridiculous short grey pants. Her curly child-father wearing a pirate hat, staring off

into the distance. Her grandmother, presumably, as a young woman posing in front of a blackboard displaying some horrendously complicated mathematical

formulae. Her grandfather drinking a pint of Guinness. An old stone building on some sort of moor. Her father in a graduate gown, flanked by his parents,

looking as though he was staring down the barrel of a shotgun rather than at a camera.

"This is more like it," Gran said triumphantly, took the pictures from Thea's hand and replaced them with another.

It was a picture of Sherlock, sitting on the same sofa Thea was on right now, looking absolutely awful. He was even paler than usual, stupidly thin, the

shadows under his eyes were almost black, his hair stood up as though it had not been washed in days. On his lap, jaws firmly clamped on his finger, sat a

decidedly grumpy looking baby.

"Is that me?" Thea asked.

"No, it's one of the other infants your father was in the habit of letting chew on him," her grandmother said. "Of course that's you. You were cutting incisors.

Almost drove him round the bend."

"So he came here?" Thea looked at Gran dubiously.

"We staged an intervention of sorts," she admitted. "Drove down, bundled you both in the car and kidnapped you. Your father was so sleep deprived and

exhausted he didn't manage to stage an escape until two weeks later."

"Wow."

"I know," her grandmother said, shaking her head. "Here, there's another good one. You're really quite new there…"

At first Thea thought her Gran was going a little senile because there didn't appear to be a baby in the shot at all. It was just a photo of Sherlock on the tube,

which was weird enough as it was. There was no fathomable reason why her father and his parents should have ever been on a tube together, let alone

taking photos in one.

"We came to visit and he was being difficult," her grandmother said, as if she'd read her mind. "He insisted on taking the underground everywhere, I think he

was hoping it would discourage us from tagging along. No such luck. We were taking you to have your first round of immunisations that day, it was raining cats

and dogs and he refused to get into a cab… I took pictures to annoy him, more than anything."

"Where am – oh…"

Barely visible in between the lapels of her father's slightly open coat was a very small green woollen hat and a flash of pinkish skin.

"How am I kept in place?" Thea asked suspiciously. Sherlock, in the picture, was holding onto a pole with one hand and digging into his pocket with the other.

"One of those thingamabobs…you know them, you've seen them," her grandmother was half-smiling, half-frowning at the photograph. "Like a backpack, well,

front pack, I suppose. I wish they'd had them when my children were small, much less cumbersome than a pram."

"Where…who…" Thea was staring at the picture trying to make sense of her own bafflement. "Did _he_ buy _that_?"

Gran looked at her strangely.

"Well, actually, I seem to recall he asked Myccy to do that," she said.

"Huh."

"Yes, yes," her grandmother seemed to remember something in vivid detail suddenly. "He did. He'd seen the mothers around the hospital with them, toting

their babies to and fro, and it must have struck him as practical. So he called your uncle and demanded he bring him one of those contraptions when he came

by next and your uncle then called me in an attempt to delegate, but we were in transit from South America and not due to arrive for two more days-"

"Uncle Mycroft came to see me in the hospital?" Thea interrupted.

"Of course he did."

"How long was I in?"

"Not quite a week, as I recall. They wanted to be absolutely sure there was no lasting damage." Gran squeezed Thea's knee. "Little did they know you were

absolutely perfect from the very beginning."

"So, did he come more than once? Uncle Mycroft?"

"Yes, of course he…you are asking very odd questions, Thea. Why wouldn't he?"

"I don't know…" Thea frowned. "Because he's busy? Wasn't he busy?"

Her grandmother shrugged a little.

"I do believe his visits were on the brief side," she admitted. "Long enough to satisfy him that you were both doing reasonably well."

"Us both?" For one hysterical moment Thea thought there might have been a twin.

"Well, yes, sweetheart. You and your father, both." Gran moved her hand to feel Thea's forehead. "Are you not feeling well?"

"I'm fine," Thea said quietly. "I'm just surprised, I suppose. Was he there quite a lot then? In hospital, I mean."

"He – your father?" Her grandmother's look was now one of open concern. "Of course he was."

"Really?"

"Alethea, what is going on?"

There had been precisely two previous occasions when her Gran had employed her entire first name. Once when Thea had almost wandered into the path of a

tractor as a four-year-old and when she had caught her attempting to light glasses of whiskey on fire during the 70th birthday celebration.

"I…" Thea found herself turning the picture over in her hands at a manic pace. "It's hard to explain."

"Is it indeed?" Her grandmother suddenly bore a striking resemblance to uncle Mycroft. "Because from where I am sitting it looks an awful lot like you have

fallen prey to some outlandish misconceptions regarding your father."

" _Misconception_ ," Thea muttered. "Now that's funny."

"Thea, darling, what did you two argue about?"

"We didn't really _argue_ -argue," she said. "Not as such. I went and…"

Her voice trailed off. Gran leaned over, took the picture from her wringing hands, saving it from certain destruction, placed it in the box with the rest and put

the box on the ground.

"It's alright," she said.

"It really kind of is not," Thea sighed. "Do you know who Philippa Greene is?"

Her grandmother stilled for a moment, then nodded very slowly.

"You went and saw her?" she asked.

"I did."

"And you told your father?"

"I did."

"And?"

"He had no idea who I was talking about," Thea said morosely.

"Oh."

"Yes." Thea gave her grandmother a sideways glance. Gran wasn't the type to face palm, but she looked as though she was seriously considering it.

"That boy and his blasted selective memory," Gran muttered.

"That's the thing though," said Thea. "It's not _selective_ memory, it's _elective_. If he doesn't care, he doesn't remember. He deliberately gets rid of things he

doesn't consider interesting to make room for things like 40.000 different types of floor wax."

"Oh, he doesn't mean-"

"Yes, he does!" Thea interrupted and was momentarily stunned at her own anger. "All this 'he doesn't mean it' and 'he can't help himself'-"

"What's going on here then?"

Her grandfather was in the door, drying his hands on a tea towel, looking at them curiously.

"Are you two having a row?"

"We're moments away from one," Gran said before Thea could refute any rowing allegations.

"Right. Pet, with me," Grumps nodded towards the hallway. "We're going for a constitutional."

"But-"

"No buts," he said. "I'll not have the two great loves of my life come to blows. Now, come on. Best to let your grandmother cool off, she's got a tremendous left

hook when she's riled up."

()

For an old person, Grumps set a pretty blistering pace up the dirt road leading into the woods. Somewhat encumbered by her grandmother's mackintosh, Thea

struggled to keep up. Once they were what her grandfather judged to be a safe distance from the house, he slowed down a little.

"Can you do me a favour, pet?" he asked when Thea fell into step next to him.

She shrugged.

"No matter how aggravated you might be," he said, "please don't shout at your Gran. Alright?"

"Alright," Thea muttered. "I'm sorry."

"It's not me you should be apologising to."

"I know," she sighed. "I will."

"That's grand."

They walked through the drizzle, mud clinging to their boots. Soaked blackbirds were sheltering in the trees.

"Grumps?"

"Pet?"

"Do you remember when you went and had tea with my mother?"

"Somewhat," he said carefully.

"What was she like?"

Her grandfather turned off the path and led them deeper into the trees until they reached a very basic wooden construction, overgrown with moss and weeds.

A shelter of some kind, probably for hunters. Or birdwatchers. It had two walls, a roof and three tree stumps beneath to sit on. They settled down and Grumps

withdrew a thermos from the impossibly large pocket of his coat. He poured steaming tea into the plastic cup serving as a lid.

"She was impossibly nervous," he said. "Dropped a whole plate of scones on me, jam, cream and all."

"She did?"

"I thought she'd go into labour, she was so mortified." Her grandfather smiled. "It took her the better part of a half hour to relax enough to even sit down. I

think her friend ordered her to sit in the end."

"Philippa?" Thea asked.

"Yes, that was it. Agnes and Philippa." He sipped the tea cautiously and passed the cup to Thea. "Careful now, it's hot."

"What else?" Thea blew into the tea.

"It was a little bit like being interviewed for a job," Grumps said. "I remember, I said that to your grandmother in the taxi home. Like they were trying to

determine if we'd be willing grandparents."

"Did you get the job?" Thea flinched at the heat of the tea and the feebleness of her attempt at humour.

"I think your mother was satisfied." He winked at her. "I mean, your Gran could barely contain herself, I half suspected she'd try and steal one of those strange

little pictures of you they showed us."

"Did she?"

"Almost. See," her grandfather took the cup from her, "we had kind of come to terms with the idea of not having any grandchildren… so when Sherlock told us

you were well underway, it was one of the most smashing surprises."

"Not _the_ most smashing?" Thea asked with mock offence.

"Easily in the top five."

"I'll take that, I suppose. What else?"

Grumps thought for a while.

"They had a picture of her parents up on a shelf, next to the teacups, of Agnes' parents, your Gran asked about it," he said. "It made her quite sad, your

mother, it seemed she missed them terribly. Poor little thing. You're lucky, of course, that you weren't a boy, she'd have named you for her father-"

"What was his name?" Thea cocked her head.

"Oh, something ghastly and ordinary…Andrew? Michael? Something in that vein. Cathleen is a lovely name though, so that turned out well for you."

"What d'you mean? How did it – was that Agnes' mother's name?"

"Did you not know that? Huh." Grumps took another swallow of tea.

"Well, no. How do you know her parents' names?"

"Came up in conversation, I suppose," her grandfather said. "You know your Gran, she could make inquiries with her head embedded in wet cement."

"Did they seem happy, Agnes and Philippa? As a couple, I mean?"

Grumps shrugged.

"Hard to tell," he admitted. "We only met them once, pet. They were both nervous and I suppose they weren't very demonstrative in their affections in front of

us easily shocked old people. They didn't seem miserable. Their place was nice. Smallish, but nice. They were doing up your room, I remember now. They

showed us."

"What did it look like?"

"Bright yellow walls," her grandfather said without hesitation. "Like a canary. Absolutely tremendous colour. I think you'd have enjoyed it greatly."

As they sat quietly, listening to the rustle of rain in the trees, Thea tried to picture the yellow room she might have had. Instead she'd gotten a seemingly

endless string of dingy to average flats, some with a room of her own, some not. Something occurred to her.

"When he rang to tell you I was…underway, what did he say exactly?"

"I don't know," Grumps said. "Your Gran answered the phone. You should ask her, I'm confident she'll give you a word perfect account."

"Probably," Thea said, staring into the woods.

"I've always wondered when you'd get curious about this."

"You did?"

"It's only natural that you'd want to know more," her grandfather said. "Inquisitive spirit runs in the family."

Thea laughed hoarsely.

"Are you alright, pet?"

"Alright is a really vague term," said Thea. "I'm not _not_ alright, I suppose. It's just so complicated. So very, very complicated."

"At least it's not boring, ey?" Grumps draped his arm around her shoulders and they sat, sharing the rest of the tea in silence.

()

Thea's room at her grandparents' house was a strange sort of childhood museum. Stuffed animals – a bear, a tiger and, inexplicably, a moose – had been

sitting on the shelf next to old hard covers of _Treasure Island_ , _Peter Pan_ and _Around the World in Eighty Days_ for as long as Thea could remember. The books

were tattered to the point of disintegrating but the animals were pristine. Neither of her grandparents' sons had been one for playing with stuffed toys. A

wooden chest at the end of the bed, Thea knew without having to open it and check, held her father's old pirate hat and chipped wooden sword. There was a

secret compartment in the lid, home to a pocket knife and a dark green velvet hairband. The knife was pretty self-explanatory but Thea had always been

puzzled by the hairband.

During her only extended stay here, many years ago, a thousand it felt like, Thea had worn the pirate hat. Every day, all day, even when they went out, and

slept with it under her pillow. She thought about taking it out to see if it still fit, but she fought the impulse down and sat on the edge of the bed, staring out

into the rain. It was getting heavier and a gloominess descended that was at once creepy and comforting.

She pulled off her wet socks and pants and changed into leggings with a print of the milky way on them. From a drawer she recovered a pair of woollen socks,

which were only now starting to actually fit her, and padded softly back downstairs.

"…seems well enough," she heard her grandmother's voice from the hallway, talking on the phone. "I've tried to reach him, but…no, of course he won't. I did.

No good either. Do you think he realises? Would you, dear? Yes."

Thea rounded the corner as Gran replaced the handset.

"Sorry I shouted at you," she said sheepishly.

"Not to worry, darling."

"Was that uncle Mycroft?"

"Yes, he says hello."

"No he doesn't," Thea said with a smirk.

Her grandmother sighed.

"In his way he does," she said.

"How?" Thea asked, trailing after her grandmother towards the kitchen. "How do you keep so patient with them?"

"I'm their mother," Gran laughed. "I've learned the hard way that there are some things outside my control. Believe me, sweetheart, it took me long enough."

"I think I'm all out of patience," Thea sighed. She took a seat at the table and watched her grandmother examine the contents of the fridge.

"I don't blame you." Gran closed the fridge, took a breath and opened it again. "I got to that stage a few times, more than a few, but it only makes things

harder."

"I suppose…"

"I used to watch other mothers and their children," her grandmother said almost dreamily, taking a wedge of cheese off a shelf and replacing it. "They seemed

to be so…tactile. Cuddling and kissing and touching all the time, even if it was just for a small moment, and I used to get so jealous. What I wouldn't have

given for children who didn't act like I was trying to set them on fire whenever I tried to hug them. You'd have thought I was stabbing them, the way they

carried on."

"Both of them?" Thea asked.

"All of them." Gran turned her attention to the butter, which was apparently also unsatisfactory. "In their own ways. Myccy would calcify, it seems quite

hilarious now, he'd be literally petrified until I'd give up. Sherlock would physically fight me off. He bit me so hard once I had to get stitches."

"Really?"

"I'd show you the scar, but I'm afraid my wrinkles have swallowed it."

"That's awful," Thea said.

"I thought so, too," her grandmother smiled. "But you don't get to choose your family, as they say. I got the children I got and they made up for their little

strangeness in many, many ways."

"Name one," Thea challenged.

"They were much more interesting than any other children I came across. They were inventive, even if it was prone to cause some sort of disaster, they were

passionate about their interests. I had curious, independent children and even if they ran a mile whenever I attempted to kiss them, they worked out their own

ways of being affectionate the best they could. You can't ask a person to do more. It's unfair."

Thea rested her head on the wooden table top. It was simply too heavy to hold up for another moment.

"You still have questions, don't you?" Gran asked, abandoning the fridge empty handed and heading for the pantry.

"I do," Thea admitted.

"But?"

"I don't know if I want to hear the answer."

"Ah…" her grandmother returned to the table with a pot of honey and two spoons. "Now there's a conundrum as old as the world."

()

Sunday slipped past all of them somehow. Thea slept late, breakfast turned into a three hour affair somehow, they played Scrabble, went for a wet walk, drank

tea. Thea worked out how to connect her mp3 player to her grandparents' stereo and spent the better part of the afternoon introducing her grandmother to

the more obscure elements of punk rock, much to Gran's delight. Grumps found a pair of noise cancelling headphones in the shed, put them on and

disappeared into the kitchen to pay serious attention to a bag of beef cheeks. Suddenly it was nine in the evening and they were almost dozing in front of the

fire.

"Oh, dear, we've got to call Myc," her grandfather suddenly said, sitting up with a groan. "He's going to want to know when to send a car to fetch you."

"I could stay," Thea murmured sleepily.

"Ha – and tether us to one location for the rest of our natural lives? Not a chance, pet. Shall I tell him around three?"

Thea nodded and shifted from her reclined position on the sofa, just enough to reach the plate of biscuits on the floor.

"Where'd the day go?" she asked, crunching into a ginger nut.

"To be with all the other days," her grandmother said quietly.

Grumps was talking on the phone in the hallway. The fire was crackling. Outside a vicious wind was starting up, working itself almost into a howl. Thea was so

comfortable she thought she might melt.

"Are we turning in?" her grandfather asked when he returned to the room. "Or are there any more shenanigans on the agenda?"

"That depends," Gran said, giving Thea a curious look.

"Oh, but we're having such a nice time…" Thea groaned.

"That may not change, necessarily," her grandmother pointed out.

"What's this all about then?"

"Thea has a big daunting question," her grandmother explained almost gleefully.

"What is it?"

"Like a band aid," Gran said. "It'll drive you crazy otherwise, you know it will."

She did have a point of course, not that it made things any easier.

"I've been wondering," Thea said carefully, "about what happened right after I was born."

"About what exactly?" her grandfather asked. "Loads of things were happening."

"Uhm…" Thea suddenly felt awful. Her grandparents were the nicest people in the world, it seemed unfair to ask them things that would require decidedly

non-nice answers. They were looking at her with so much goodwill, it was sickening.

"I'm curious," she started again, "about how it was decided where I would live."

It was impossible to word this more diplomatically, Thea was certain.

"There was never a question of…" her grandmother's voice trailed off and she seemed to be holding onto her teacup rather tightly all of a sudden.

"What?" Thea asked.

"Are you thinking about that woman with the hair, love?" Grumps asked Gran.

She nodded.

"What woman with what hair?" Thea wondered if it was actually possible to be less specific.

"Oh, it was just the most awful hair," Gran sighed. "Nothing about it worked for her. And it sort of bounced as she was walking…just…awful."

"Shocking shade of blonde," her grandfather chimed in. "Just the most-"

"What happened with the woman with the hair?" Thea interrupted as gently as she could manage. Her grandparents' digressions could gain momentum worthy

of landslides and were best nipped in the bud.

"She must have been one of the counsellors," Gran said. "She brought up the possibility of adoption."

"The-"

"It was just part of their protocol, pet."

"It's surely not _protocol_ to come and offer people to adopt out their newborns? That would be weird and a little perverse," Thea didn't quite snap but she was

not far away. "Why did they feel that was necessary?"

"You've really got to ask your father," her grandmother said. "We don't know all the details."

"But what we do know," her grandfather added before Thea could even open her mouth, "is that Sherlock reduced that poor woman to tears and sent her on

her way."

"Why?" Thea asked fighting an increasingly doomed battle with her agitation. "If they offered him an out, why wouldn't he take it?"

"He was adamant," Gran said simply.

"Did that surprise you?" Something in her grandmother's tone suggested that it had.

"Somewhat…" she sighed. "Look, darling, the circumstances were so odd and so shockingly unexpected, we didn't know whether we were coming or going. I

don't claim to know what was going on inside your father but I can tell you that he rebuffed every suggestion of you going to live with anyone other than him.

Vehemently."

" _Every_ suggestion?" Thea narrowed her eyes. "Was there more than one?"

"Pet, be reasonable," her grandfather said softly. "Sherlock was not quite twenty-four, he was still at university, his habits were…erratic… and the basement he

lived in didn't even have a kitchen. Of course _we_ offered."

"And he turned you down?"

"Quite."

"Huh."

"We were worried," her grandmother said, "about both of you. We still worry now, from time to time, but mostly we're just so proud of how magnificently well

you two have done. It really wasn't an auspicious beginning and there've been so many bumps in the road…but you're both still standing."

"Barely," Thea muttered.

"Thea," Grumps got up and sat next to her on the couch. "No life is without difficulties. We all work with what we're given the best we can. That's all anyone

can do."

()

The next afternoon Thea was already halfway in the car when her grandmother practically came flying from the house. She had spent the better part of the day

hugging and kissing Thea goodbye, so another onslaught seemed excessive even by her standards.

"It was in the back of the bathroom cabinet," Gran said, shoving something into Thea's jacket pocket and embracing her once more. "Poor darling, even your

old grandmother is deranged."

"You're the second sanest person I know," Thea told her. "Thanks for putting up with me."

"It's a pleasure, always a pleasure," her grandmother said. "Now, get in, you're getting soaked. Give my love to those sons of mine."

"I'll try," Thea promised.

A moment later she was waving and another moment later her grandparents' house was gone from view. Thea slid her hand into her pocket and withdrew a

polaroid, black and white and slightly faded. It showed two figures, standing side by side on the lawn, their backs turned to the camera. One was tall and

slender, the other very short, not quite up to the other's hip. Both appeared to be standing perfectly still, both had their hands clasped behind their backs. The

caption, written in neat longhand on the bottom, read _Sherlock and Alethea, Observing – '02_.


	28. Treasure Hunt

As they reached the city limits, Thea nearly told the driver to drop her at Baker Street. Very nearly. She got so close in fact that the words

"Could you-" emerged before she could stop herself, though she managed to end the sentence with "-turn the radio up?" and spent the rest of her journey to

Mycroft's muting the ghastly elevator jazz the driver sadly favoured.

Tuesday after school she set off on her bike and didn't realise where she was headed until she found herself at the gates of Regent's park, at which point she

turned the bike around and rode aimlessly around the city for two hours…before returning to Mycroft's.

Wednesday, a week after her meeting with Philippa Greene, Thea realised in the middle of her physics lesson that she was engaged in a game of brinkmanship

and very nearly had a panic attack when it occurred to her just a fraction of a second later that she could not back out. It was not her move. The ball was not in

her court. The bluff was not hers to call. _And_ she had started it.

She'd taken the gloves off when she chose to use the L-word. Sherlock had parried with a challenge of his own when he refused a reaction. Thea had upped

the ante and left. Now she had to wait.

Simply returning to Baker Street was by no means impossible. Thea knew she could go home anytime she liked. However, it would enable her father to let the

matter slide. It would be a forfeit and was therefore out of the question.

So Thea remained at her uncle's place. She didn't see him. Once she was up late enough to hear his return announced by the whistling of the kettle downstairs

at some impossible hour and contemplated briefly going down to say hello. She did not.

She went to school.

She rode her bike for miles and miles, listening to the playlists her friends had made; _Nerves of Steel,_ which was heavy on Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, and

 _Cumbersome Solitude,_ featuring Johnny Cash and Tom Waits, were her favourites.

She did her homework.

She went to band practice.

"Sit Rep?" Marcus asked when she trudged through his back door.

"Fubar," Thea replied.

They played a lot of Ramones and Thea broke a drumstick practising rim shots.

()

The weekend loomed unbearably large. Time had to be killed.

"Hi," Thea poked her head around the corner of the counsellors' office at Royal Free Hospital.

"Oh hey," said the surprisingly young woman behind the front desk. "How can we help?"

"I'm doing research for a school project," Thea waved her spiral notebook and smiled amicably, "I was wondering if you could help me out with some

information if you're not too busy?"

"Will it take long?"

"Five minutes. It's just a couple of questions."

The woman motioned for her to come all the way into the room.

"Fire away," she said.

"So my project is about parental rights," Thea slammed her notebook on the desk and unsheathed her pen.

"That's a bit serious," the counsellor remarked.

"I _know_ ," Thea groaned. "I didn't pick it, believe me. Anyway," she continued, encouraged by the lady's knowing smirk, "I was wondering if there are any

circumstances under which parental rights can be revoked or questioned right after a child is born. Do you know what I mean?"

"Sort of…"

"Like, for example, when would hospital staff be allowed to refuse a parent taking their child home? Or what would have to happen so they might try to advise

the parent to give the child up for adoption? Does that ever happen?"

"I see, okay." The counsellor smiled. "So, firstly, neither of those things happen very often. Unless the mother is very obviously impaired – if she has a drug

problem for example and the baby presents with withdrawal symptoms, for example – or if there are very strong signs of domestic abuse, we cannot withhold

permission to leave the hospital. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I do," Thea scribbled notes and nodded along. "How d'you spell symptoms?"

The counsellor spelled obligingly.

"As for the question of adoption," she said when Thea had finished writing, "that is usually arranged before the birth. However, in super- _super -_ rare instances,

a hospital counsellor might bring it up if it seems that the parent or parents might not be able to cope or seem unwilling. Does that make sense?"

"It does," Thea placed a dramatic full stop. "Thanks so much."

She left the hospital with a vague feeling of disappointment at the pointlessness of her research and another twelve hours of Saturday to murder.

For about five of them she sat on the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral, watching pedestrians, half-heartedly practicing deductions and waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

 _Waiting._

()

On Sunday Mycroft was in the kitchen with the papers when she slunk downstairs, still in her pyjamas, and took pity on her. His version thereof anyway.

"Sit down, close your eyes, don't move. Set 12, please. Fifteen minutes," he said from behind the business section.

"Does it have to be that one?" she asked five minutes later.

"You don't get to choose, that would defeat the point. Now concentrate."

Thea rolled her eyes behind closed lids and concentrated.

"Time," her uncle announced ten minutes later. "Begin."

"Grimm's Fairy Tales, Oh The Places You'll Go, A Short History of Everything, Yertle the Turtle, Of a Boy, Scouts' Handbook, Oliver Twist, The Witches," Thea

recited dutifully. "An Introduction to Basic Chemistry, Crocodiles, Poisonous Spiders, Matilda…"

Her voice betrayed her and cracked slightly.

"Is there a problem?" Mycroft asked after a few moments of silence. "Did you lose the thread?"

Thea shook her head, clearing her throat violently and to no avail.

"So continue."

"Where the Wild Things Are," she croaked. "Rotten Island, Dogs, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, 20.000 Leagues under the Sea, Peter Rabbit, Ronja the

Robbers' Daughter, Skin Diseases, What's Geology, What's Chemistry, What's Physics, Volcanoes, The Secret Garden, A History of Aviation, Dinosaurs, In The

Night Kitchen."

Such had been the contents of Thea's bookshelf, in sequence, when she was seven years old.

Thea opened her eyes just in time to catch the half-smile disappearing from her uncle's face.

"Good enough," he said. "Albeit by the skin of your teeth. Go and take a look in the fridge."

On the centre shelf, on a plate, sat a sad looking sandwich, wilting lettuce hanging from between its slightly upturned crusts. It was so blatantly out of place

amongst the containers of pre-portioned vegetables and protein shakes, there was no doubt it was her prize.

"Thank you?" Thea took the plate out, sat it on the table and examined the sandwich cautiously. The cheese inside was going blue. This, unless her uncle

intended to poison her, was not for eating.

"I suppose the ducks will be happy," Thea said automatically.

When Thea had been small, her uncle was in the habit of appearing at whatever place Sherlock was renting at semi-regular intervals. He never rang in

advance, rarely knocked and always brought a plastic shopping bag. He would hand this bag to Thea and she would scurry around the flat while Mycroft and

her father engaged in a brief verbal sparring session, filling the bag with the stale, off and mouldy food items lurking on surfaces, between sofa cushions and in

neglected cabinets. When she'd collected everything, or most things, her uncle would take her to feed the refuse to the ducks residing at the round pond in

Kensington Gardens. They'd watch the tourists, practise deductions on them and if she did reasonably well he'd buy her fancy chocolates before taking her

home. If she didn't do well, he'd send her home with a jar of gherkins. It was as close an approximation of fun times as Mycroft was capable of and while the

memory was definitely a fond one, it did not quite explain why Thea had been rewarded for her recall with an inedible sandwich. Unless…

"Have a good day," Mycroft called after her as Thea turned heel and marched from the kitchen. When she returned, fully dressed, a few minutes later he was

gone. Thea took a page of his abandoned newspaper, wrapped the disgusting sandwich in it and stuffed it in her backpack.

Two minutes later, she was cycling towards Kensington.

Game on.

()

Thea dismounted on the far side of the pond, the furthest point from the Broadwalk. Mycroft, for some reason, had a monumental dislike of the Broadwalk and

they had never set foot on it during their duck feeding excursions. She excavated the sandwich, ripped it to shreds and tossed them to the approaching ducks,

who seemed as delighted to see her as ever. The weather was more than reasonable and it was the weekend, so the paths and green were crawling with

possible markers. Thea got back on her bike but remained stationary as she scanned the groups of tourists, picnickers and random amblers. Guidebooks were

read, maps were consulted, kisses exchanged, Frisbees tossed, a young woman was playing guitar and singing _One After 909,_ dogs were barking, children ran

past, cigarettes were lit, shopping bags toted, the busker launched into _Across The Universe_ , a gaggle of girlfriends took over a park bench for a champagne

breakfast, photographs were taken, a tour guide passed holding an umbrella to keep her followers following, the ducks went mental when a toddler dropped

his bag of popcorn, a rescue mission ensued, the woman with the guitar started on _Get Back_ – she was having quite the Beatles retrospective…oh. Thea rolled

towards the busker, parked herself right in front of her and waited for the song to end. It did and the woman immediately began to croon _The Long and Winding_

 _Road_ and Thea felt a grin spread across her face. Not only were the songs all by the Beatles, they were all from the same album – _Let it Be_. And, as every

sentient being had the duty to know, _Let it Be_ had been the occasion for the legendary rooftop concert, which meant Thea was off to Mayfair – Saville Row

Number 3 to be exact.

She was just slowing down when she was almost hit by a car pulling out from the curb.

"Bloody arsehole!" she shouted. "Let your guide dog drive, why don't you?"

To her horror the car stopped and the driver all but climbed out of the window, giving her the finger.

"Watch where I'm going, you daft cow!" he roared and sped off.

Thea got off the bike and parked herself outside number three. When nothing in any way odd or noticeable had transpired forty minutes later, she was getting

a little nervous. Maybe she had overestimated her uncle's grasp on Beatles trivia and he'd meant for her to go to Abbey Road or something similarly dull and

obvious. Or maybe the dickhead in the car had distracted her at the crucial moment…unless the dickhead in the car was the marker. Oh, so bloody stupid.

Right. Thea closed her eyes and rewound. It had been a Vauxhall Zafira, the transport of arseholes, red. So. Vauxhall Bridge? Vauxhall Walk? Vauxhall Station?

Vau- _watch where I'm going…_ what…number plate…number plate…PW…7…the rest didn't matter, did it? Probably not, the area code was what she needed,

surely. Unless he was going for coordinates and that would be just cruel. So. PW. P was for Preston and UVWXY were all for Carlisle…and while Carlisle itself

was ages away, the Carlisle Arms was maybe five minutes from where she was standing.

As it turned out, it was also closed.

Bugger.

Thea wracked her brains thinking of another Carlisle related location. Unless the car make had been the point after…

"Excuse me?" the man had a vaguely German accent and was holding a battered Lonely Planet Guide.

"Yes?" Thea asked cautiously.

"Am I anvhere near the Soho Square Gartens?" he asked. "I'm meant to be meeting my…oh, never mind…I see them, sorry, thank you – John! Adam!"

He gave Thea a smile and jogged off towards the two men who had stopped on the corner at hearing their names.

Right. Elaborate. Clever. John Adam Street…Thea pushed off.

As she drew closer, she almost started laughing. Not _just_ John Adam Street. At the corner of John Adam and Viliers Street was a Herman Ze German. Good

thing, too, she was feeling rather peckish by now.

She locked her bike on a lamppost out front, entered the deli and drew in a deep, intoxicating whiff of glorious sausage scent.

"Took you long enough."

Thea turned slowly. At the tall table in the corner, next to a display of packaged Knackwurst, stood Sherlock.

"Want to play another game?" he asked.


	29. Niceties

Thea approached her father slowly.

"You could have just called," she said when she arrived at the table.

"This was more fun though, wasn't it?"

She inclined her head ever so slightly in the affirmative.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked.

"No," Thea lied. "I had a sandwich."

Her father smirked, reached into his pocket and withdrew a battered eggtimer. Almost gently, he placed in on the table and pushed it across to her. Thea

considered refusing, shouting and demanding a normal conversation. Instead she took the eggtimer and started turning it over in her hands, hyper aware of

her father's eyes on her.

"This is knackered," she said after a few moments.

"Bravo," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Silence. That was just the headline," she snapped, twisting the dial. "Look, this has been used so frequently the mechanism's all worn out. The whole dial is

loose."

"What does that suggest?"

"That it's been used to countdown the maximum amount of time it goes to," Thea squinted at the numbers printed on the rim, which were scratched and

rubbed off almost to the point of being illegible. "Two hours. That's pretty long for eggs, but considering that it's not been used to time any actual cooking, I

suppose it doesn't matter. And before you ask – it's got no film of grease, which it would have if it had been anywhere near a commercial kitchen."

"Maybe someone used it at home," Sherlock interjected innocently.

"No one cooks at home enough to wear out a timer as heavy duty as this. Grumps has one that's infinitely more flimsy and that's from the seventies or

something. Therefore," Thea said in her best imitation of her uncle, "this has been used to time something other than cookery. The owner took it with him or

her wherever they went. They kept it in their coat pocket, to have it handy."

"Might have been in their bag."

"No, it mightn't have," she fired back. "The groove around the dial is caked with tobacco crumbs. Smokers tend to not just shove their cigarettes in their bags.

Coat is much more probable. Then there's the other substance…that weird whitish stuff. I'd say plaster dust but that doesn't coagulate like that. Does it?"

"It does not."

Thea took a toothpick from the little plastic container in the centre of the table and scraped some off the tobacco and the mystery substance from the timer

onto the table.

"Sticky," she muttered to herself. She licked the tips of her index and middle finger, picked up a tiny clump of the white stuff and rubbed it between her

moistened digits. It didn't dissolve completely, probably because it was so old, but it was definitely water soluble.

"It's like powdered hot chocolate," she said, puzzled. "Is it one of those protein shake things?" Her father shook his head slightly. "Because if it is then this

might have belonged to an athlete who timed their work outs…but that doesn't really work with the cigarettes…I'd say it's uncle Mycroft's but it's just not fancy

enough for him."

"Are you guessing?"

"A little," Thea admitted.

"That's alright."

She almost dropped the eggtimer. 'Alright' was a word that never came within seventeen sentences of deductions gone awry. Sherlock was still watching her

closely, but he was neither frowning nor rolling his eyes nor displaying any signs of disappointment and exasperation.

"What does one do when one encounters an unknown substance?" he asked.

"Examine it further," Thea said immediately. "Break it down to its components if possible."

Her father pulled a folded notebook page from his pocket and passed it to her. Thea smoothed it on the table and found the ingredients of her mystery powder

listed in Sherlock's second best handwriting.

"Niacin?" she asked. "Potassium chloride? Is this some kind of medication? Wait, no, never mind me…" she added quickly as she scanned the rest of the page,

"…if it was there wouldn't be all these vitamins and acids…it _is_ food. Is it really not a sports thing?"

"Nope."

"A diet thing? Is it Slim Fast?"

"No."

"What else is there?"

"Come on, spawn, don't let me down!" Her father's impression of a parent cheering from the sideline of the hockey field – or something equally horrendous –

was sort of endearing.

Thea narrowed her eyes and gathered her focus. For a moment it overrode everything, even the awareness of how ridiculous it was to be in a Herman Ze

German with her father and at least eight elephants in the room, playing deductions. Breaking radio silence by analysing a stupid eggtimer was a new level of

odd, even by their standards…still, it was a little fun. Suddenly, inspiration struck.

"Formula?" Thea ventured very, very cautiously.

"Top of the class," Sherlock said.

Huh. Suddenly the eggtimer was genuinely fascinating. Thea took a fresh toothpick and dug out some tobacco remnants, rubbed them between her fingertips

and sniffed. While she by no means claimed to be a connoisseur of tobacco smells, there was one brand she could identify in her sleep. Port Royal. The scent of

Port Royal had disappeared from her day-to-day life relatively recently, twenty months ago, to be precise, when Sherlock had finally decided quit smoking. Until

then his clothes, her clothes and their curtains – when there were curtains – and the pillow cases on his bed, had given off the same strangely Christmassy

scent that now tinged her fingers.

Therefore…

"Oh, you're onto it, I can tell," her father's voice cut through her thought process. "Dazzle me."

"It's yours," Thea said. "But…why-"

"Asking questions and dazzling me are mutually exclusive," Sherlock interrupted.

Thea hesitated. It was very like standing on a diving board with no idea whether or not the pool below was filled with water or solid concrete.

"You used that to remember to feed me…?" She couldn't help a tiny raise in her voice at the end, turning the statement into a bit of a question after all.

"That's preposterous," her father said with a slight grin. "Why wouldn't I just set an alarm on my phone?"

"Because you're so used to ignoring your phone it wouldn't even have registered," Thea answered. "You needed something portable and loud that couldn't be

switched off or run out of batteries. Eggtimer. Perfect solution. Apart from one problem…"

"Oh?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You don't need to feed babies every two hours, surely? That's why it's so worn out. You got so used to it that you could feel it starting to go off and then

you'd crank it again without even taking it out of your pocket. There's fibres of your coat wrapped around that little metal bit in the middle."

Her father nodded appreciatively.

"Are you dazzled?" Thea asked drily.

"Somewhat."

"Can I ask a question then?"

He nodded again.

"Why'd you keep it? Sentiment?"

"Of sorts." Sherlock held out his hand and Thea passed him the eggtimer. "This infernal thing was the bane of my existence. I dreamed of its grinding gears.

When it went off it was like nails on a chalkboard and it went off _2267_ times before you started eating human food alongside those hideous bottles. I kept it to

remind me that the worst was over."

"Did that hold true?" Thea asked.

"Quite. There was of course an abundance of subsequent awful occurrences, but the first six months are the very, very worst, ask anyone." He stuffed the

timer back into his pocket. "Hungry now?"

"Yea."

"Stay right here."

Sherlock strode over to the counter and Thea climbed onto the stool, resting her chin on interlaced hands. Over the past ten days she had envisioned a whole

spectrum of confrontations with her father; she had pictured herself screaming, raging, weeping and generally being loud and emotional, while she imagined

Sherlock somewhere between frustrated, bored and put upon. Other scenarios had seen her in the role of the icily detached inquisitor, driving her father to

distraction until he stormed off in a huff; once or twice she'd fancied herself outwitting him somehow, trapping him with trick questions until he had to

profess…something. It had all been a bit muddled, angsty and dramatic; she knew this now and she'd known while she indulged herself. At no point had it

occurred to her that they would play treasure hunt and deductions or that he would buy her a sausage, yet here they were.

"Oh nice," Thea said when Sherlock sat a paper plate in front of her with a flourish. On it was a mountain of sliced up sausage drowned in curry sauce and

chips.

"Is it revolting enough to find your approval?"

Thea looked up at her father and found herself thinking that, maybe, there was a minute chance he could be nervous. When he placed a can of coke next to

her plate, her suspicion intensified tenfold.

"So," Sherlock sat and watched as the speared a slice of sausage.

"Sho," she replied with a full mouth.

"Was that sufficient?"

Thea swallowed and cocked her head.

"Specify?" she asked.

"I've treated you to something you enjoy, shared a memory and physical memento specific to your childhood and bought you food," her father clarified. "Are

you satisfied?"

To buy herself some time, Thea refilled her mouth and chewed with exceeding leisure. It appeared she had not been the only one doing research.

"What else is on the list?" she asked.

"Who says there's a list?" Sherlock snapped.

"You've gone and asked for suggestions of how to placate me _or-_ " Thea said sharply when her father opened his mouth, "- perhaps John and Miss Hudson

have taken it upon themselves to volunteer some ideas without your asking. Either way, you've taken their suggestions on board, which means you actually

took them off semi-permanent mute, but people tend to ramble and you don't do well remembering this sort of information; yet you just recited to me three of

the suggestions you paraphrased on your list after your brainstorming session or sessions, which is a little ironic because of course once you've written a list

you no longer need the list because the act of writing things down makes you more likely to remember. And don't say you weren't paraphrasing, no one you

know would word it like that; and I'm pretty confident someone suggested you buy me ice cream or cake and you got lazy or forgot almost immediately and

wrote down 'food' instead. There is definitely a list. What else is on it?"

Sherlock looked at her with an expression that was simultaneously morose and delighted.

"Would you have preferred a dessert item?"

"No, this is really, really good," Thea chirped innocently. "Wanna try?"

" _Want t-_ "

"Don't try to redirect me," Thea interrupted. "What else is on the list? Did you bring it?"

"No."

"You did, in case I wasn't satisfied. Can I see?"

"You appear to have eyes."

Thea groaned.

" _May_ I see?"

With a defeated sigh Sherlock dug into his other pocket and produced a crumpled sheet of paper.

"Revisit one or more locations of emotional significance," she read aloud between bites of currywurst. "Demonstrate affection. Engage in dialogue. Oblige

requests of information, regardless of whether or not they appear relevant – that's a good one."

"Is it?" her father frowned.

"It really is," Thea confirmed enthusiastically. "Can we do that one next?"

"Must we?"

"Absolutely."

To his credit, Sherlock merely rolled his eyes but refrained from banging his head against the table top.

"Very well," he said darkly. "What is it you want to know?"

"Do you remember that woman with that hair?" Thea asked without missing a beat.

"Dear god, you've talked to my parents," her father groaned. "Yes, I remember _that_ woman with _that_ hair. What could it possibly matter?"

"A-ha," Thea said. " _Regardless of whether or not it appears relevant_ , remember?"

"Fine."

"Why did she think you were interested in putting me up for adoption?"

"It was," Sherlock said, breathing deeply to maintain calm, "a misunderstanding."

"Elaborate." Thea put down her fork and leaned forward.

"When you were twelve hours old I went out for a walk, when I returned the cretins staffing the hospital's social services department had formed inaccurate

opinions of our situation. They sent the woman with the hair as their representative, I set her right, she went away never to be seen again. The end."

"A walk."

"Yes."

Her father's walks were the stuff of legends.

"How old was I when you returned from your walk?"

"Thirty-one hours and fifteen minutes," Sherlock replied without a moment's hesitation.

"Oh."

"I presumed you'd be exhausted from the ordeal of being born and sleeping, so my presence would not be required," her father continued unprompted. "It

never occurred to me that my absence would be noted at all, let alone move anyone to assumptions about my intentions. Admittedly, time got away from me,

but in my defence, there was a lot to think through. Oh, good God…are you crying _again_? I was warned that might be the-"

"I'm not crying," Thea assured him with some difficulty, her voice muffled by her hands covering her face and the rippling giggles she could not suppress. "It's

just so typical. You went for a _walk_? You didn't think anyone would notice you were gone for the better part of a day? You're supposed to be a genius…where'd

you go?"

"I got as far as Stoke Newington."

"From Cambridge?" Thea could feel her jaw slackening a little. "You walked to Stoke bloody Newington from Cambridge? That's preposterous."

"It just sort of happened," Sherlock said vaguely. "Anyway. I got a ride back, so that was fortunate. Otherwise you would have probably been closer to fifty

hours old. God knows what they would have thought then. They might have sold you to some desperate couple in the meantime."

"You didn't want that?" The question was out before Thea realised.

"Nope." Her father popped the 'P' slightly.

"Why?"

"I don't know." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and shot Thea a wary look. "I'm aware this is a substandard answer, but there's little I can do short of

inventing something more poetic. Perhaps the mileage was insufficient, if I'd walked a little longer…to Horsham…or Paris…"

Thea laughed so loudly the man behind the counter turned to look at them.

"…or Budapest," her father said sheepishly. "Budapest would have done it for certain. Unfortunately, I didn't even get to the sea. So, I guess we will never

know and shall have to put it down to some kind of primal instinctive reaction. Now finish your food."

()

When they stepped outside, the late morning was in full swing around them. For a moment they simply stood on the footpath, getting their bearings, adjusting.

"Let's play _Retrieval_ ," Sherlock said suddenly.

"Seriously?" Thea asked, looking up at him with a slight frown.

"What? I was assured you'd be pleased."

"Is this…" Thea pulled the list from her pocket and consulted it, "…previously popular pastimes?"

"It is," he confirmed. "I believe it also counts as _conscious effort to spend time together_. Two birds, one stone."

"That's both asterisked," The pointed out and turned the sheet over. "Bonding methods, is it?"

"So I'm told. Do you not want to?"

"Oh, I want to."

"Splendid." Sherlock took his wallet from his pocket and measured it against his palm.

Thea stared at him in disbelief.

"We're not playing with _that_? Are we?"

"Do I hear the cowardly mewl of a forfeit?" her father asked with a raised eyebrow.

"No…"

"I'd unlock my bike, if I was you."

Before Thea could ask why, he moved away, weaving through the pedestrians to the curb, making straight for a lady struggling to shove an awkwardly sized

suitcase into a cab.

"Allow me," he said smoothly, took hold of her luggage, shoved and the case tumbled onto the back seat.

"There you are." He held the door for her and as she stepped into the cab, slid his wallet into the pocket of her billowing, stylish summer coat.

"Jesus," Thea muttered, fumbling with her bike lock and abandoning it, still locked, to sprint towards the cab in an entirely conspicuous manner, yet just in time

to catch the words "Central Station" before her father slammed the door shut. The cab pulled away.

"On your mark, get set, go – why can I still see you?" Sherlock shouted at Thea.

"You're mental!" she yelled, already running back to the bike, losing more precious seconds with the lock. "You're utterly insane!"

"She's getting away with our fun funds!" her father howled in semi-sincere horror as Thea finally hit the pedals and sped away.

()

Following the taxi would obviously be ridiculous, so Thea turned off the Strand and onto Bow Street, hammering past theatre upon theatre until she hit

Bloomsbury. By the time she passed the British Museum she was soaked with sweat but fairly confident she would beat the cab to the taxi rank at Kings'

Cross. It was likely the lady would get dropped off there, but even if she didn't, her coat was distinctive enough to be spotted in a crowd. Provided the crowd

wasn't too crazy.

Retrieval had been a favourite game of hers for years. It had taken her ages to realise that it was her father's go-to method when he wanted to be rid of her.

He'd slip an unsuspecting stooge a worthless item and Thea would stalk her prey for hours, following them all over town, waiting outside their places of work,

sneaking into cinemas and restaurants after them, until an opportunity to retrieve the object arose. Returning triumphantly had always been the best.

Of course the game had worked both ways. Thea was almost as adept at placing bait as Sherlock was. His retrieval missions, on the other hand, could take

literally days; yet he never returned empty handed. When Thea started to get suspicious, she decided to follow him with all the stealth she could muster; only

to find that he gained possession of the bait within the hour and spent the remainder of the afternoon otherwise. Although she had never revealed the results

of her surveillance, she refused to play Retrieval categorically from that point onwards.

She'd forgotten the thrill of the chase and it was all the more exhilarating when it returned with a vengeance now. The bike safely locked, she took up a post

outside Maccas, allowing eight minutes until she would move into the station itself.

Six minutes later, the lady clambered from the cab, suitcase and all. Thea trailed her through the underpass into the food court, where she grabbed a

newspaper from an abandoned table, staying a safe distance as the woman approached the platforms. There was a group of football fans, blocking the

passage onto platform four, which appeared to be the destination and Thea slid past her mark, rounded the elevator and approached from the front, head

buried in the papers was she walked.

They collided hard enough to topple the suitcase from its precarious balance on its back wheels and the woman let out a small shriek.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," Thea exclaimed, hurrying to help her get the surprisingly heavy case upright. "Are you okay? I wasn't looking, I'm so, so sorry…"

"Just…okay," the woman snapped, exceedingly irritable. "It's nothing, just leave it, leave it!"

She groaned when Thea sprang away from the case only to bump her again.

"Jesus! What's wrong with you?"

"I was only trying-"

"Just stop…what are you doing?"

It had been a good two years since Thea's last attempt to pickpocket anyone and she was clearly rusty. The fact that the stylish coat had deceptively deep

pockets was not helping at all. Her hand was stuck and the lady was staring at her furiously.

"What-"

Thea's fingers closed around smooth leather, she wrenched her hand free and sprinted. She slithered through the football fans, vaguely aware of the woman's

shouts behind her and raced for the Pancras Road exit at top speed. Her frantic pace remained unchanged until she hit the steps of the British Library, where

Sherlock sat waiting as she'd known he would be, nursing a take away cup.

Thea dropped onto the stairs next to him, panting slightly.

"Mission accomplished?" he asked.

"Piece of cake," she said breathlessly, holding out the bait for him to take.

Both of them froze and said nothing for a while, as they gazed at the small leather wallet in Thea's hand – a wallet that was similar in size and texture to

Sherlock's, but decidedly not his.

"Oh bugger," Thea blurted. "Bugger, bugger, bugger."

Her father closed his eyes for a moment.

"Shit," Thea continued, hands now shoved firmly into her hair. "Shit, shit, shit – I must have got the wrong side – shit."

Slowly, Sherlock opened the wallet and examined its contents.

"Did that woman strike you as a particularly nice human being?" he asked calmly.

"No, she was a cow. Why?"

Her father withdrew a handful of notes – three twenties, four tens, two fives and a fifty – folded them and pushed the thin wad into his trouser pocket. Very

casually he placed the wallet on the step next to him and put his paper cup on top.

"Doesn't pay to be a cow," he said.

Thea cocked her head.

"What about your wallet?" she asked. "Did it have your credit card in or anything with your name on? What about cash? Are we at least breaking even?"

He sighed and shook his head.

"Poor, innocent child," he said. "Do you honestly think I'd put anything of value at the mercy of your pathetic pick-pocketing skills? You'd make the Artful Dodger

roll over in his grave. The wallet was empty, it was just a motivational tool."

"You utter-"

"Behave."

"I could have gotten arrested!" Thea complained, although this had never bothered her before and truthfully didn't bother her now.

"Oh, you're much too quick for that, surely," Sherlock tutted.

"You just said yourself my pick pocketing is pathetic," she reminded him drily. "And that money is mine. It's exploitation of a minor if you keep it."

Her father smirked.

"What if I reward you?"

"Then you'd not just be exploiting me but also my need for approval."

"I'll take you to the museum…"

"Which one?" Thea asked after a moment's pause.

"You choose."

"The Hunterian."

At this Sherlock cracked an actual smile.

()

An hour later father and daughter were surrounded by pickled foetuses, admiring their leathery little bodies with great fascination. This particular room had

always been Thea's favourite, even when she had been very young. While they had come to the Hunterian Museum with clockwork regularity for years, neither

Holmes had set foot in its hallowed halls for years now and being back was strangely like visiting old friends. Thea had to fight the urge to hug a large jar

containing a specimen sporting a dramatic case of polycephaly.

"Fascinating," Sherlock murmured a few jars over. "Have you seen this? It's a new one."

She ambled over and cocked her head, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The foetus appeared to have two extra legs protruding from its back,

just below the shoulder blades.

"How come they're so high up?" she asked.

"Parasitic twin," her father explained.

"Gruesome," Thea said cheerfully. "God, I just want to live here."

"Homesick, are you?" Sherlock asked.

She shot him a curious look.

"You used to think that this…" her father made a vague gesture encompassing the whole room "…was where you came from. You were quite small, I suppose,

but I'm surprised you've forgotten. You were rather obsessed with the idea."

"I was?"

Sherlock glanced at her before returning his attention to the specimen in front of them.

"Absolutely. The first time I brought you here you managed to completely disturb every person in earshot, it was gorgeous. You had examined every single jar

with incredible concentration and then you asked me – very, very loudly – why I had chosen you when I could have had a jar-baby with a giant head instead.

Somehow you had arrived at the conclusion that hydrocephalus was a sign of heightened intelligence. Fair assumption, really. And then, when we had the

attention of every other person in the room, you demanded we pick out another to bring home with us. And _then_ you proceeded to pitch an abominable fit

because I told you we couldn't. You were so outraged, we had to leave."

The parallel between her favourite room and the story of the jar-baby had never occurred to Thea – well, apparently it had, but not since she could remember.

"It was atrocious," her father said fondly. "I kept telling you they were dead but you insisted this was not a permanent condition. All they needed was some

electricity, you told me. We'd been reading Mary Shelley, which left quite the impression, clearly."

Thea pictured her father wrestling a miniature Dr Frankenstein towards the exit and shook her head, grinning.

"You know what convinced you that I was not just being obstinate?" Sherlock asked.

"What?"

"I took you to the gift shop, so you could satisfy yourself that there were no jar-babies on sale. Life and death were concepts beyond your scope, but the rules

of supply and demand, strangely, were well within your grasp. For years you would check every time we came whether it was your lucky day, but they were

always fresh out of jar-babies."

"Why did I stop?" Thea asked.

Her father shrugged.

"I haven't a clue," he admitted. "It might have slipped your mind or you might have suddenly caught onto the fact that death is irreversible or perhaps you

decided being an only child had its perks…I certainly wasn't going to refresh your memory by asking. Shall we look at the bone saws next?"

"Yea, okay."

()

The afternoon was well underway when they started strolling towards the river.

"I spy with my little eye someone afflicted with horrendous athletes' foot," said Thea.

"Brown jacket and baseball cap by the phone booth," her father announced five seconds later. "I spy with my little eye someone who starts a new job

tomorrow."

"White trainers with the bags in front of the window?" Thea asked a good while later.

"Obviously," Sherlock nodded.

"I give you 'obviously'," Thea muttered. "Right. I spy with my little eye someone texting a prospective boyfriend."

"You can't be sure," her father scoffed.

"Yes, I can," she shot back.

"Sunglasses and green bag over there," he said, " _but_ it's just as likely she's texting her mother."

"Mother my right armpit," Thea huffed.

"I spy with my little eye someone in the final stages of prostate cancer."

"That man with the backpack – can we go drink an indecent amount of samples at the tea shop?"

"Capital idea."

()

Having been ejected from Twinings a little while later for treating their sample counter like a tequila bar, the Holmes found an acceptable bench in the Victoria

Embankment Gardens. Sherlock produced two smashed bags of crisps from the depths of his coat pockets and Thea noted with great appreciation that they

were salt and vinegar flavoured.

"How was meeting Philippa Greene?" her father asked without warning or context.

"Quite strange," said Thea.

"How so? Was it not what you had expected?"

"I don't think I expected anything specific…" she thought about this. "I might have. I don't know what though. I don't even know if I liked her very much, but I

think I expected to like her…or her to like me…I don't know, really. It was terrifying. And awkward. But it was good, as well."

"Good how?"

"I wanted context, I suppose, and detail," Thea said, crunching a crisp pensively. "And I did get both."

"What sort of detail?" Sherlock was examining his yet unopened bag of snackage.

"My mother took lemon and sugar in her tea," Thea said quietly. "She didn't have a favourite colour, but she looked great in green. She wasn't a morning

person and had lots of dangly earrings and her she got along with her parents but her parents were dead. She kept a picture of them in the kitchen because

they liked to eat together. She ate green apples when she was pregnant with me, bought me books and made me a canary yellow room."

"That seems awfully inconsequential."

"It's not," Thea said. "It's like colouring in. The picture stays the same but it's somehow better. But," she added with a sigh, "I really should have prepared a

list of questions – we got off track very quickly and then it just all went bizarre."

Her father raised an eyebrow.

"I wanted to know all kinds of things and I just kind of forgot in the heat of the moment," Thea explained. "Just mundane things, like her favourite music and

books and what kind of clothes she liked and what her handwriting looked like – just little things. Because I might be like her in all kinds of ways and not

realise it. That seems weird."

"It does?"

"To me it does. Sometimes. I guess." Thea shrugged and leaned back. "Or maybe it just seems like it should seem weird. It's all a bit philosophical, I suppose."

"It seems complicated," Sherlock said. "Emotionally complicated."

"Pretty much."

Thea fished out another crisp. It was getting windy.

"I'm sorry."

The crisp hung suspended between the bag and Thea's mouth. She blinked once, twice, three times but there seemed to be no visible tears in the universe's

fabric.

"For what?" she asked finally.

"For contributing to these complications," her father said. "And for not being very good at…this."

It would have been less surprising if a giant kraken had risen from the river to devour the couple making out on the bank.

"That's alright," Thea said lamely.

"I'm not confident it is," said Sherlock. "It must be in many ways frustrating and disappointing. Agnes was supposed to deal with the emotional side of things.

I'm ill equipped."

The couple on the bank moved away, holding hands, heads close together, sweet nothings surely dancing to and fro between them with light-footed ease.

"Well," Thea heard herself say, "Agnes isn't here though, is she. So it doesn't really matter."

"It seems to matter a great deal to you," her father pointed out. "I certainly got that impression during our slightly disastrous last talk."

"I didn't ask the right questions," Thea said.

"I'm sure Philippa Greene would-"

"No," Thea interrupted. "Never mind Philippa bloody Greene. I didn't ask _you_ the right questions."

Sherlock turned to look at her, an eyebrow raised dubiously.

"When I was, uhm, away," Thea went on carefully, "were you aware of my absence?"

"Keenly," her father answered without hesitation.

"Did you spend a lot of time strategizing to make me come back?"

"A demented amount of hours," he admitted.

Thea smiled, Sherlock frowned.

"If someone tried to hurt me, what would you do?"

"Torture and murder them, without mercy," came the instant reply.

"Can I get a pet rat?"

"No, rats are for experimentation, they are not pets. That seems an unrelated question."

"It is, I just thought I try and slip one by you," Thea admitted.

"Fair enough," her father nodded. "Were my answers satisfactory? Rats aside."

"Yes," Thea said simply. "All is well."

"It is?" Sherlock asked with genuine astonishment.

"It is," she confirmed. "And look –" she pulled the crumpled list from her pocket and directed his gaze to a dot point at the very bottom, "- we can tick off

 _communication of emotional attachment_."

Her father made a small noise of astonishment. Some take away containers drifted by on the river. A drunk person was shouting profanities close by. The wind

picked up more and it started to drizzle.

"You know," Sherlock said finally, "you are, in fact, a source of great delight in my life."

"Yea," Thea leaned towards him and rested her head on his upper arm, "I know."


	30. Thanks!

That's all, folks – at least for the case of Agnes Tremaine…

Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing – it's been a blast!

Keep your eyes peeled for more of Thea's ridiculous adventures – I feel she's just too much fun to can for good.

(Also, if you have any suggestions – shoot!)


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